Summer Of '39
by The Irish Chauffeur
Summary: The fifth of my series of eight linked stories. So, what happened during that very last summer before the Second World War began, when the Bransons and the Crawleys went to stay with the Schönborns at La Rosière, Friedrich and Edith's beautiful château beside the River Loire in France. For those of you who so loved the adventures of the Three Musketeers: Danny, Robert, and Max.
1. Chapter 1

Summer of '39

Chapter One

A Collection Of Photographs

 **Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, July 1949.**

Softly turning the brass door knob, doing his very best not to make even the slightest of sounds, Danny Branson slipped furtively inside the bedroom. Given the comparative lateness of the hour, it was now well after eleven, he expected to find the room in complete darkness as, with the demands made upon her as a doctor in general practice over in Cork, and now with another young baby to care for, Claire often went to bed early and would have come upstairs by ten. Indeed, it had become something of a joke between the two of them, with Danny suggesting, tongue-in-cheek, and with a mischievous grin, only the night before last, that she was trying to avoid him. In fact, nothing could be further than the truth. Married nearly four years now, they had a deep and abiding love for each other and with what, years ago would have been called _proofs of affection_ for each other in the form of two year old Thirza, along with young Patrick now aged all of six months.

Instead, and much to Danny's surprise, he found the bedroom beyond the door illuminated by the soft glow from one of the bedside lamps and Claire still very much awake, sitting with what appeared to be a large leather bound book resting on her knees. Some medical journal, he assumed. Looking up, and seeing Danny come into the bedroom, Claire smiled; glanced instinctively over at the cot in the corner where little Patrick stirred fitfully, snuffled, and then thankfully without further ado, settled once more to the sleep of innocence.

"Sorry!" whispered Danny, beginning to divest himself and hurriedly so of his outer clothes. "The blasted meeting down there in Kinsale went on much longer than I'd have expected ... or wanted".

"Don't be; he's a light sleeper!"  
"Just like his mother, then, for sure!" Danny grinned, bent and kissed Claire gently on her forehead. "Darlin', don't wait up on me. I'll be back within a jiffy". So saying, he slipped into what in the old days would have been a dressing room and which, when the house had been restored had been reconstructed as a bathroom.

A short while later, having cleaned his teeth and turned out the light, now barefoot, wearing just his vest and a pair of blue and white striped pyjama bottoms, Danny re-emerged from the bathroom, and climbed into bed beside Claire who he found to be still engrossed in what Danny assumed to be a book. Slipping his arm around her, he peered over at what it was Claire was reading, and then saw that he had been mistaken. For what she was holding was not a book at all, but a large album of photographs.

"Where on earth did yous get that?"  
"From your Da, earlier this afternoon. He thought I might like to have a look at it". Claire turned over the next of the thick, soft, black pages.  
"And?" asked Danny softly, catching sight of the photograph which Claire was now studying intently and with obvious interest. "It doesn't ups ..." He caught her hand gently and brought it swiftly to his lips.

"Upset me? No, not at all".  
"Really, for sure?"  
"Yes, really, but all the same, it's very sweet of you to ask". Claire rested her head on Danny's shoulder.

"I don't suppose yous know this, but Max was a crack shot, for sure". Danny smiled; nodded towards the black and white photograph which had so piqued Claire's interest. It was of Rob, Max, and himself, all wearing white open necked shirts and dark trousers, the three of them seated on a stone wall, with Max in the middle, and with a rifle resting across his knees. "Aunt Edith took that. At their place over in France, just before the war. See ..." Danny pointed to the caption, neatly written with a dip pen, in capital letters, in Carter's white ink, directly underneath the photograph.

* * *

Now that he came to think of it, Danny remembered that last winter, while recovering from a heavy cold, Da had spent several lamp lit evenings, alone in his study, quietly pasting and labelling a whole series of black and white and sepia photographs into a large leather bound album which, Danny supposed, must be the very one that Claire was holding now. Indeed, so methodical and tireless had Da been over his endeavours with the photographs that, at the time, one evening, over supper, Ma had said laughingly in front of everyone that she was convinced that the photographs were not family snaps at all but a series of pornographic pictures. No doubt, continued Ma, of some scantily clad French demoiselle, acquired by Da surreptitiously from some back street book shop in Montmartre the last time they had all been in Paris, just before the war. For his part, Da had taken Ma's ribbing in good part, steadfastly refusing to rise to the bait of Sybil's teasing. Then said coolly, and with a merry twinkle in his blue eyes:

"Ah, me darlin', married to yous, now why should I be needin' to be lookin' at pictures of some scantily clad French tart?" The _double entendre_ was not lost on Sybil.

"And am I supposed to take that as a compliment, Mr. Branson?" she had asked archly.

"Take it how yous want, for sure!" grinned Tom, provoking laughter all around, until that was young Daniel, now aged ten, asked politely to be enlightened as to the precise nature of a French tart.

"Well don't look at me, for sure," said Tom, as Danny now looked enquiringly at his father. "He's your son!"

* * *

" _Summer of '39,_ " read Claire.

"A lifetime ago ..." Danny sighed.

"You'd have been ..."  
"Nearly twenty, Rob, eighteen, and dearest Max, sixteen. If he'd lived ..."  
"He'd have been twenty six".

"Almost twenty six ..."

Claire smiled wanly.

"As you said, _a lifetime ago_!"

Understandably, now in something of a contemplative and reflective mood, Claire quietly closed the album, then placed it carefully on the bedside table next to her. A moment later, she switched out the light, and snuggled contentedly down within the comforting circle of Danny's strong arms, where they lay, a heartbeat apart and for the moment, each alone with their thoughts.

"Tell me .." Claire asked suddenly, softly insistent, from out of the darkness.

"Tell yous what, darlin'?" Danny whispered drowsily.

"About that summer ... what you remember".

"What I remember?"  
"Hm".  
"If you're quite sure". Danny yawned. Evidently tonight, at least for a while, sleep would be in very short supply and not because of what was the usual reason for that being so. For, while when they had married neither Danny nor Claire were inexperienced in matters sexual, the passionate intensity which, right from the very start of their life together as man and wife, played such an important part in their relationship, proved something of a revelation to the both of them; each learning, the one from the other, hitherto undreamed ways of giving physical pleasure.

"I am".

"Well, then ..."

 **Author's Note:**

Carter's White Ink? No longer available! Originally based in Boston, and then in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Carter's Ink Company was once the largest ink manufacturer in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Wishing On A Star

 **La Rosière, Brittany, France, evening, July 1939.**

Dusk on a warm summer's evening; the mist already rising, coiling in drifting, ethereal, smoky wraiths above the grey, slow flowing waters of the river below.

Sixteen year old Simon Crawley rested his elbows on the stone cill of the turret window, cupped his chin in his hands, and gazed silently down at the beautiful view spread out beneath him. It was indeed just as Mama had said yesterday: _different_ ; at least that was the word which she herself had used to describe her first impressions of this house, shortly after they had arrived here. That had been just in time for afternoon tea. And, from off the midday express, which had brought them all the way from the Gare Montparnasse in the bustling, crowded Place de Rennes in distant Paris, southwestwards, as far as the quiet, sleepy wayside station of Saint-Florent-sur-Loire and where they had been met by two chauffeured motors kindly sent by Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith to meet them from the train.

* * *

 **Gare de Saint-Florent-sur-Loire, earlier the previous day.**

The arrival of the Crawleys, all of them (save that was for Grandmamma who these days was increasingly frail and had stayed behind at the Dower House in Downton) at the little railway station standing beside a bend in the Loire, in the drowsy, torpid heat of the summer afternoon, had been greeted by that unmistakable sound of summer. The incessant, noisy whirring of the cigales, the cicadas, which they had encountered for the very first time back in the summer of 1932; when the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns had been staying at the Villa San Callisto in the Fiesole hills overlooking the beautiful city of Florence.

While Mama, Robert, Rebecca, and Emily all seated themselves in the rear seat of the first motor, watched in silence by both Nanny Bridges and Mama's lady's maid, the two chauffeurs busied themselves seeing to all of the luggage, while along with his father, Simon stood looking at the broad sweep of the Loire. The river was all but devoid of all traffic save for inshore and close at hand, a canoe being paddled by a solitary man. Out in midstream, there was a slow moving, square rigged barge, which Papa said was called a fûtreau but with hardly a breath of wind, the pennant and the single sail of the barge hung limply from the yardarm, and despite the best efforts of its occupant, the canoe seemed to be making little progress.

The river, too, appeared to be all but motionless; its surface smooth, flat, like a millpond, and, where it met the northern shore, just below the spot on which Simon and his father were presently standing, on a sandbank, it did so, seemingly without either sound or movement, save for where the water could be seen eddying around a rock. A picture then of tranquility which, said Papa, was deceptive and by way of explanation then pointed towards where the levels of past floods were painted on a nearby wall. A moment later and Simon and Papa had joined the rest of the family seated in the first of the two motors.

And then they were off, out of the station forecourt, trailing a cloud of white dust behind them, running along the broad road beside the river, before climbing up through the narrow, steep, cobbled streets of Saint-Florent, with, as they passed through the village, the quaint old houses shuttered fast against the heat, and the bells of the parish church clanging out a discordant tocsin, calling the faithful into Mass.

Then, beneath a cloudless, peerless, blue sky, suddenly they were out of the village and bowling away into the Breton countryside, running along a patchwork of narrow country lanes, bordered by vines, stretching as far as the eye could see, glimpsing here and there the spire of a church, or else a windmill, denoting the existence of yet another village, otherwise unseen, lying hidden among the present pale green sweep of the vines which, later, in the autumn, would become a patchwork of both russet and gold. At length, having climbed well away from the river, at an isolated crossroads, marked only by a lonely wayside calvary, the chauffeur turned left and, followed in turn by the second motor, began to descend towards where the broad sweep of the distant river shimmered like quicksilver in the sunlight.

* * *

 **La Rosière, later that same afternoon.**

On this hot July afternoon, the very first glimpse which Simon Crawley had of La Rosière was an image which would stay with him for the rest of his life. At the far end of a long straight drive, the start of which had been marked by a pair of ornate pillars and wrought iron gates, the road thereafter flanked by row upon row of green vines, there suddenly hove into view what, had he been asked to describe the building directly ahead of him, Simon would have said was a castle from straight out of fairy tale, which had, miraculously, somehow come to life. Built of pale limestone, the ornate, L shaped building with its cluster of conical turrets, clutch of tall chimneys, and steeply sloping slate roofs, seemed to rise sheer out of the river, floating above its own image, reflected in the still waters of the moat below, for La Rosière stood not on the north bank of the river at all, but on its own small island.

That La Rosière resembled a castle in a fairy tale was an opinion that Simon found out later was shared too by his Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil. However, with the Bransons not arriving here until the following day, for the time being it was just the Crawleys whom Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith, with Max and Kurt standing beside them in the forecourt, now welcomed to their beautiful château nestled midst the rolling vineyards, deep within a grove of oak trees beside the Loire.

* * *

While everyone else was becoming reacquainted, standing slightly apart from all the others in the gravelled courtyard, Simon stood looking about him. Never having seen anything quite like this before, had it fallen to him to describe his own first impression of the château, then in a word, he would have said that it was ... beautiful ... alluring ... captivating ... enchanting. Even ... magical.

True, it was not possessed of the undoubted magnificence and splendour of Rosenberg, where they had all spent a long month in July 1937, with its wonderful views of the distant Alps. However, given the fact that when, in March of the following year, Herr Hitler's Germany had forcibly annexed Austria, and Uncle Friedrich, Aunt Edith, Max, and young Kurt had all been forced to flee their homeland in the wake of what father referred to as the Anschluss, Rosenberg, which by then was already a memory for the Crawleys became so too for the Schönborns; their magnificent home lost to them for the foreseeable future, possibly forever.

* * *

Even so, well before the Anschluss took place, as the situation in Austria had begun steadily to deteriorate still further, Friedrich had taken the very wise precaution of beginning, discretely, to move funds and various items of property out of the country, both to Switzerland where he had property close to Lucerne, as well as to France and here to La Rosière. Among which, unbeknown to Edith had been her fabulous tiara and matching ear rings which Mary had coveted ever since she had seen them, first in a series of photographs in an album Edith had brought her with on board the Rome Express back in the summer of '32. Of course, Mary had seen the jewels more recently when the Crawleys, including darling Mama, as well as all of the children had travelled to stay with the Schönborns, at Rosenberg, in June 1937, in the aftermath of the Coronation of Their Majesties King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, when Mary was able to see at first hand for herself the exquisite nature of these particular pieces of jewellery, given to Edith by Friedrich to mark the occasion of Max's birth.

As for the subsequent escape of the Schönborns from Austria, Mary knew that Matthew had played some part in it. Exactly what his involvement had been, she didn't yet know, as ever the diplomat in the family, Matthew had said very little about it. Then, as now, he kept his cards on that subject particularly close to his chest, although Mary presumed that when Matthew was ready to vouchsafe any further details on the matter that, in the fullness of time, he would tell her all about it.

* * *

So, given all that had happened during the last sixteen or so months, being of a more sensitive disposition than the rest of his family, when Mama had been asked by Aunt Edith for her opinion of the château, Simon could not help but think that his mother could have been somewhat more tactful. But then, as he had grown older, Simon had come to realise that tact was not something at which darling Mama excelled.

 _"Well, darling, it's rather different to Rosenberg ..."_

Not that Aunt Edith herself seemed to mind in the slightest, or indeed even notice Mama's lack of sensitivity, along with Uncle Friedrich, continuing to extend to all of them the very warmest of welcomes. But then, as far as Aunt Edith was concerned people had always been far more important to her than either possessions or position in society; Simon recalling to mind something which his father had said on his return from Geneva where he had been working at the League of Nations, following the Schönborns' midnight escape from Austria. When, later, assured and relieved to learn that they were all safe in Switzerland, father had commiserated by telephone with Aunt Edith about the fact that they had to leave Rosenberg. Aunt Edith had said that while it was sad, the house and estate there were but possessions. And while it was hard not to care, like all such things, people bought and sold them, even gave them away; it was something they would learn to live without. What mattered most was that they, all of them, by whom she meant Uncle Friedrich, their two boys, and herself, had been saved together.

If suddenly one night the Crawleys were all forced to leave Downton Abbey, it occurred to Simon, that it was highly unlikely that Mama would be so philosophical about such a reversal of fortune as had been Aunt Edith.

* * *

 **La Rosière, the following evening.**

Continuing to gaze out of the window of his lonely eerie, Simon sighed.

He thought it to be singularly odd.

For Danny, Rob, and Max, nothing ever seemed to change. No matter how far apart they lived, as they grew older, their friendship endured; even deepened. For Simon, it was different. Some years ago, he and Bobby had rubbed along tolerably well, the five year difference between them seeming then not to matter a single whit. But while he still found Bobby's boyish fun amusing, they were no longer as close as they had once been.

If the truth be told, Simon wished he could find someone his own age with whom to be friends. Of course, back home in York, there was Tristan ...

* * *

Earlier this evening, with it being so warm, beneath the clustered pepper pot turrets and steeply sloping slate roofs of the Renaissance château they had dined, _al fresco_ , out on the terrace. The meal had been a convivial affair, celebrating not only the delayed arrival of the Bransons, off the afternoon stopping train from Paris, but also marking darling Max's sixteenth birthday which had occurred a couple of days earlier. Of course, Tom and Sybil and their brood should have caught the same service south as had done the Crawleys the day before. However, after breakfast in their hotel which overlooked both the Seine and Notre Dame, Tom had taken himself off to nose around the bookshops in Montmartre and, despite promising to be back at the hotel in time to catch the midday express from the Gare Montparnasse, in the end they were late arriving at the station, having to dispatch a telegram to Friedrich and Edith, telling them they would be on the next train instead, and which then turned out to be a stopping service.

"Honestly, men!" had exclaimed a surprisingly and unusually flustered Sybil upon their arrival here at the château, at the same time fixing with a steely glare an equally unusually penitent and sheepish Tom, before explaining more fully to Edith the reason behind their delayed arrival here at La Rosière.

Her sister heard Sybil out, glanced at Tom, then smiled and hugged her younger sister tightly to her.

"Never mind, darling. You're all here now; that's what counts".

* * *

Save for little Emily who had her supper with Nanny Bridges upstairs inside, all the other children were present down here at dinner on the terrace. During the meal, while a very great deal was made of Max as the birthday boy, this apart, having been asked by Matthew to tell them something of his experiences over in Spain the year before last, taking his uncle at his word, Danny proceeded to give freely both of his views on General Franco as well as his opinions on Il Duce, Benito Mussolini, in Italy, and Herr Hitler and his Nazis in Germany; the young Irishman's fervent ardour reminding the adults seated around the table very much of his father, Tom, in his younger days. And while Danny considered himself in no way to be as gifted with words as was his beloved Da, when it came to it, the picture he painted for them all, of what he had experienced and seen during the Spanish Civil War, held everyone mesmerised.

Danny had begun by explaining that those of them who had gone out as volunteers from Ireland, from Britain, from Mexico, from the Soviet Union, as well as from elsewhere, to fight on behalf of the Republicans against the Fascists over in Spain, had done so with the genuine but, as it turned out, misguided idea of making a grand gesture. Something in which they all sincerely believed, and which they thought too, they might never ever have the chance in their young lives to so do again. And sadly, for those who then failed to return home, that proved to be the case.

Unfortunately, the harsh reality with which Danny and the rest of the Irish Volunteers were confronted on their arrival in Spain, at least those who were honest enough to admit it, if only to themselves, was that all they had done was to blunder, blindly, naively, some would say stupidly, into a bloody, violent conflict. A chaotic civil war, the origins of which they did not understand, and in which, by many, their presence was not even wanted. All this apart, led by well-meaning amateurs and irregulars, the Republicans, who held scarce a third of the country, including the capital of Madrid, were both poorly trained and poorly equipped; proving no match whatsoever for the Nationalist troops of General Francisco Franco ably supported by German and Italian fighter 'planes. So, however the Republicans chose to look at things or indeed misrepresent wilfully to the wider world what was happening in Spain, from the very outset, their cause was doomed, and it was only a matter of time before the Nationalists prevailed. But like all lost causes, in the process, for the time being, it attracted its fair share of idealists and romantics, many of whom, subsequently, would pay for their youthful idealism and naivety with their lives.

Nonetheless, Danny's talk of the intensity of the sunlight and of the blistering heat down on the limitless sweep of the plains, of the deep cold up in the high, icy, snow capped mountains, of the poverty and squalor of the villages and towns he had seen, many of them scarred by the ravages of war, and one day, after a long march, in ill fitting boots, the simple pleasure he had experienced in drinking a glass of ice cold water seated on a wall beside an isolated taverna in the shade of a grove of eucalyptus trees, kept everyone, especially Rob and Max, utterly spellbound.

"Ah, that water to be sure! It was like nectar!" Danny sighed expansively, causing laughter all around. "Now, if somehow you'd been there, Uncle Friedrich, and offered me in exchange a bottle of your finest champagne, I'd have declined. Meaning no offence, for sure". With a broad sweep of his hand, Danny indicated the now decidedly empty bottles of Moet and Chandon 1911 standing forlorn on the table, opened to mark the arrival, here at La Rosière, of the Bransons and the Crawleys, as well as to celebrate Max's birthday.

"None taken, dear boy". Friedrich smiled. Neither he, nor indeed Matthew, both of whom had fought in the last war, were at all surprised to learn that disillusionment had quickly set in amongst the Irish Volunteers over there in Spain. After all, the brutal reality of war was very different from how those sitting at home imagined it to be. And it had been just the same for both Matthew and Friedrich, whether here in France, in the trenches on the Western Front, or else in the skies over Serbia or the Dolomites.

* * *

Danny continued with his tale for a little while longer, telling of some of the people he had encountered, how a Republican soldier had taught him to take apart and reassemble - well, almost - a Maxim gun, of an air raid on the largely defenceless city of Valencia and its bloody aftermath. Of his memories too of Christmas 1937, which he had spent snowbound in the winter fastness of the Pyrenees, among men and women who knew by then only too well that their cause was utterly lost, of the camaraderie of the camp fire, of the arrival of Red Cross parcels, and letters from home - here Danny shot a fond glance at his mother - "Ma was always worrying if I had enough clean socks!"

"And what about the girl, the one you met there up in the Pyrenees?" asked Rob with a grin. "Tell us about her!" Everyone laughed. Danny shook his head.

"What girl?" he asked disingenuously, making it perfectly clear from his tone that he was not admitting to there ever having been a girl and that even if there had, he would not be drawn on the subject.

At this, Tom and Sybil exchanged amused glances.

While, when Danny returned home to Ireland early in 1938, he had been equally evasive on the subject, both his parents were certain that Danny had met a girl out there in the Pyrenees, someone who had made a very strong impression upon him; the more so, when, one evening in Dublin, the news on the radio, about what was then happening in Spain, had reported further military advances by the Nationalist forces of General Franco. Danny, who by then had already, drunk a couple of whiskies, had become somewhat maudlin' and let slip a girl's name which, afterwards, neither Tom nor Sybil could recall with any degree of clarity. Later that same evening, after Danny had gone upstairs to bed, and Tom and Sybil were sitting by the fire, Sybil had said that it was hardly surprising if Danny had met someone out there in Spain for, as he had grown to manhood, with his undoubted good looks and charm, wherever he went, Danny turned female heads.

* * *

 _"Danny's a chip off the old block, darlin', for sure!" laughed Tom._

 _"Is that a fact? Really? You're very fully of yourself tonight, Mr. Branson!" exclaimed Sybil._

 _"And yous wouldn't have it any other way, for sure, would yous?" asked Tom, pulling her close and kissing her full on the mouth._  
 _"Don't be too certain about that!" laughed Sybil._

* * *

This evening, seated here out on the terrace of the château, it was obvious, at least to both Tom and Sybil, that they had been right all along. There **had** been a girl out there in Spain, the existence of whom, if only in passing, Danny had mentioned to Rob; but even if he had, Danny now refused to say anything further about her.

* * *

Then it was Robert's turn, having been asked by Friedrich if it was true that he was deferring going up to university in the autumn. Casting a glance, first at his parents, and then at Max, Rob said that it was likely that he would, and went on to explain that the previous month he had joined the RAF Volunteer Reserve and that with the way things were, if war came, he intended to become a pilot with the RAF. At that, Max's eyes grew very wide.

"Ein Jagdflieger!" he exclaimed, clearly much impressed, yet at the same time managing to sound rather wistful which, given Max's obsession with anything to do with aeroplanes and flying, and the fact that he himself would never be able to follow in the footsteps of his English cousin, was hardly surprising.

* * *

For her part, Mary's face was ashen. Back in England, at Downton, when Robert had first told his parents that he was intending to join the RAF's Volunteer Reserve and was considering deferring going up to Oxford, Mary had been horrified; even more so, when Matthew refused to forbid Robert doing any such thing.

"Matthew, you can't let him do this!"

"Mary, he's eighteen years old".

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Robert's old enough to make his own decisions".

"Is that all you can say?"  
"What else is there to say?"

Mary sighed: while she loved him dearly, at times, and this was one of them, Matthew could be so utterly exasperating. He hated confrontations of any kind; least of all when it involved members of his own family.

* * *

This evening, while they were drinking cocktails, and before the younger children had been permitted to come to join them, Mary had stood listening to Matthew, Tom, and Friedrich discussing in depth, yet again, the deteriorating situation here on the Continent and it filled her with dread; all this never ending talk of war, or else rumours of war. Then, later, over dinner, Tom had made it perfectly clear that if there was a war, then Ireland would stay neutral; which meant that Danny would be kept out of it. Obviously, given both his age and his haemophilia, Max would play no part in it either. That left Robert as the only one of the three of them who, if war came, would, in all likelihood, find himself fighting for his country. And, of course, in terms of age, Simon was not that far behind him.

"Do you really think there will be a war?" Mary asked nervously, unable to conceal the tremor in her voice.

"Hopefully not," said Matthew.

"Yes, well, we can all hope," said Mary bitterly.

"Peace for our time?" asked Tom with a wry smile; he saw Friedrich sadly shake his head.

"After the Anschluss and the Munich Agreement, I'm sorry to be the one to say this, but I think all three of us know that Herr Hitler's guarantees are utterly worthless. It's only a matter of time before he overreaches himself and he has to be stopped".

Fortunately, at this precise moment, Max's birthday cake arrived at the table and the conversation took a far happier turn, with the cake being cut and Max's good health being toasted in champagne; at which point Saiorse smiled sweetly at Robert and asked him tartly if he was old enough to be drinking alcohol.

"Sis," warned Danny from across the table, "you promised, for sure".  
At her brother's reproach, Saiorse cast a mutinous glance at Danny, glared at Robert, and tossed her head dismissively.

"Did I now?"

* * *

Dinner at last over, with the younger children having been shepherded inside and upstairs by Saiorse, with the sedge warblers in the reeds close by throatily making their otherwise unseen presence known, it was not only Simon up in his turret and leaning out of the window who was playing the part of a spectator. There were others here doing exactly the same.

Out on the warm flagstones, next to the balustrade, languid in the drowsy, lingering heat of the summer's evening, the six adults, undeniably amused in spite of themselves, gently smiling, now watched silently as below them, Danny, Rob, and Max, debonair and decidedly à la mode, each in his lounge suit, with jackets slung casually over their shoulders, Danny true to form and just like his father with his bow tie already loosened, the three of them chatting animatedly, laughing, and evidently in high spirits, headed off down the flight of stone steps which led first to the lower gardens of La Rosière, and thence to the river beyond. The sound of the young men's voices faded; was gone and for a moment, time dripped slow, like the softly murmuring, broad waters of the Loire. Eventually, it fell to Tom, to quietly put into words, what it was he, and doubtless the others, here present, were all thinking.

"A rare, rare t'ing, for sure, that," he said softly, shaking his head seemingly in disbelief, and then nodding approvingly in the direction of the three young men who by now had disappeared out of sight; swallowed up, both by the mist and by the gathering dusk.

"Agreed," said Sybil. She linked her arm through Tom's and rested her head gently on his shoulder. Turning, Tom saw her smile. He grinned. Her smile deepened.

"Mea culpa, for sure," he whispered softly.

"Hush now. All forgotten and forgiven".

Neither of them could stay angry with the other for very long and, to be truthful, Sybil knew very well that, whether on this side of the English Channel or across the Irish Sea in Dublin, Tom could lose himself in a bookshop for hours. Rather more to the point, he had promised to make it up to her. And, later tonight, she would hold him to that promise. With the thought of what the redemption of his promise to her would entail, Sybil reached up and kissed him softly on the cheek.

"What is?" asked Mary, who elegantly poised as ever, shimmering in an alluring emerald green velvet Schiaparelli gown, which Tom, with a devilish twinkle in his eyes, had insisted earlier during dinner showed Mary's covert fondness for all things Irish, had come to stand beside them.

"Never you mind!" laughed Sybil.

"Those three," interposed Tom. "I know the boys are first cousins but they could just as well be brothers for sure; so close are they".

"Danny and Robert ... always so caring and considerate of Max," observed Edith, as she joined her Irish brother-in-law and two sisters standing beside the moss grown balustrade; her voice faltering with the emotion she was so clearly feeling towards her two kindly disposed nephews.

"And Max thinks the world of them; holds both Danny and Rob in the very highest regard," observed Friedrich, lighting a cigar.

"It's been like that ever since that blasted business back in the Alps in '32, when they missed the train!" laughed Matthew slipping his arm around Mary's waist in a rare public display of overt affection.

"I think the least said about all that the better! Do you know, I had nightmares about it for weeks afterwards? And when we reached Modane and the Italian frontier ... and there was still no sign of them, I really didn't know what to think! And then, at the last minute, turning up at the station along with that French pilot on a motorcycle and sidecar. Honestly!" Mary shook her head in disbelief at the remembrance.

Matthew and Tom both laughed. Friedrich smiled too; long since having been made privy by Edith to what it was that had taken place back in the summer of 1932, when the Rome Express had stopped in the small hours at the sleepy station of St. Jean de Maurienne, high in the French Alps. In the darkness, nine year old Max, along with Danny then aged twelve, and Rob aged eleven, had all clambered down from off the train, in pursuit of Fritz, Max's errant dachshund; only, finally having recaptured the little dog, before they had a chance to climb back on board, to see the express depart without them.

Thereafter, a chance encounter with a wheelbarrow and then a French railway worker, a M. Duval, culminated in a high speed race against time through the snow covered Alps on a motorbike and sidecar belonging to, and ridden by, M. Duval's son, a pilot with the French air force, in order to try and catch up with the Rome Express before it crossed over the frontier into Italy. This feat was accomplished with but minutes to spare, Danny, Robert, and Max, along with little Fritz, being delivered safe and sound, back into the welcoming arms of their decidedly worried parents. It was this shared experience, and the camaraderie stemming from it, which had marked the beginning of the strong bond of love and affection that had developed between the three cousins and which had endured from that day forward.

"The boys thought the whole thing was a tremendous lark!" This from Matthew.

"For sure, they did!" agreed Tom with a nod and a broad smile.

"And they didn't stop talking about it for ages, either!" chuckled Matthew.

"Yes, well while they all thought it terribly exciting, I was worried sick!" exclaimed Mary.

"We all were," said Edith, softly. "Especially with Max's health ... And then to find he'd been sat in a wheelbarrow and pushed along a country road at the dead of night!"

"All the same, you have to admire Danny's resourcefulness!" laughed Sybil.

Edith smiled.

"Agreed. Up until we left Rosenberg last year, Max received postcards quite regularly from Captain Duval. Now we're in France, only the other day, Max said he would like to try and see him again. Apparently, he's based not far from here and Max, I believe, is desperate to see some new French plane". Edith shot a beseeching glance at Friedrich.

"Indeed he is. As for Captain Duval, I forgot to mention, darling, he telephoned a short while ago, in order to extend a very kind invitation, to Max and myself, along with Danny and Rob, as well as Matthew and Tom, to visit the airfield over at Nantes where he's stationed".

"Friedrich, do you think that's very wise?"

"Don't worry, I'll be there to keep an eye on things. In any case, Max is far stronger than you think". Friedrich patted Edith's hand reassuringly. "And, remember, it was you who bought him the rifle for his birthday".

"Yes, but that was because he's such a damned good shot. It wasn't bought for him to go off with you, hereabouts, hunting wild boar in the woods! Friedrich, be reasonable! Max has to realise that because of how things are with him, there are some things he simply cannot do".

"Well, wild boar apart, if by that you mean him wanting to be like Danny and Rob, to have gone out to Spain to fight in the Civil War, to have joined the RAF, to meet a nice young girl, marry, have children, yes, both of us know that to be the case. And so too, deep down, does Max. But for now, where's the harm? Let him have his head".

Sensing Tom's eyes upon her, Edith now turned to him and asked for his opinion in the matter.

"What do you think, Tom?"

"In this, I think Friedrich has the right of it, for sure," he said softly.

Edith nodded. Over the years, she had grown to trust Tom's judgement implicitly. All the same, this concerned her dearly loved son.

"Well maybe, even so, I ..."

* * *

Some time later, with Matthew and Friedrich having gone inside in order for Matthew to witness some legal papers, here on the terrace, Edith was in her element, outlining some ideas as to what they all might do over the coming days, by way of excursions. Perhaps a trip over to the coast at La Baule? Or else southwards, across the estuary to Pornic? Maybe a drive along the Loire? Some of the villages were very picturesque. A jaunt then; out to see the archaeological excavation of a Roman site close by, which, having been asked to do so, during their enforced stay here in France, Friedrich was supervising? While Tom and Sybil listened attentively and were politely receptive to all of Edith's suggestions, for her part, Mary couldn't see why they had to _do_ anything at all; she would be quite content just to stay here at the château, and rest. As for going to look at a series of muddy holes in the ground and enthuse over pieces of broken pottery, well, honestly!

Suddenly, out on the terrace, there appeared, side by side, both young Kurt and little Dermot. Aged all of five years old, barefoot, dressed in a pair of blue and white striped pyjamas, Dermot scurried across the warm flagstones and, with tears streaming down his little cheeks, promptly buried his face in his mother's side, while Kurt made a beeline for his own mother; the two boys being followed hard on their heels by Dermot's sister, Saiorse.

"Was ist es, liebling?" asked Edith, hugging the little boy tightly to her.

"Darling, what on earth's the matter?" asked Sybil, smothering Dermot with kisses.  
But before Kurt could answer his own mother, the explanation as to what it was that was wrong was vouchsafed to one and all by Dermot.

"Ma, there's ... there's ... a g ... g ... ghost outside my room!" wailed Dermot between his now muffled sobs.

"A ghost?" Tom lofted an amused brow and now looked enquiringly to Saiorse, who had come to a stand just behind the youngest of her three brothers, for some kind of satisfactory explanation.

"It's Bobby, Da. "He's been telling Dermot and Kurt that this house is haunted; then making the floorboards in the passage outside their room creak".

"Has he indeed?" Sybil did not sound unduly surprised; well aware that of her and Tom's three boys, darling Bobby was by far the most mischievous. Not that there was any spite in him, simply sheer devilment so much so that at times she wondered if he had been swopped at birth in exchange for a leprechaun. Tom being Tom, and Irish, said that it was entirely possible. Not of course that Sybil subscribed to such nonsense. Nonetheless, she was given to wondering from precisely where it was Bobby had inherited his mischievous streak; recalled to mind something Mary had said, when they were all staying at the villa overlooking Florence, that Matthew had told her once that the Crawleys were a rum lot; that when he had more time, in years to come, he intended to do some researches into the family's antecedents and history.

* * *

 **Drawing Room, Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, Tuscany, Italy, August 1932.**

".. and so I said, _you're a Crawley too_. Do you know what Matthew said by way of reply?" asked Mary. Tom, who knew very well what it was Matthew had said, now did his best not to smirk; instead he looked up at the ceiling of the villa's Drawing Room. Sybil, on the other hand, singularly unaware, now proceeded to ask the obvious question.

"No, Mary. What did Matthew say?"  
"I'll tell you what he said. "He gave me a knowing wink, tapped the side of his nose, and said that _there were Crawleys and there were Crawleys_! Well, really! I ask you!" spluttered Mary, barely able to contain her obvious indignation.  
"Ask us what?" asked Tom trying desperately to keep a straight face.

"Tom, don't be tiresome!" Her Irish brother-in-law did his very best to look suitably chastised.

"So what did you then say?" asked Sybil.

"I reminded Matthew of what I'd told him before shortly we were married; that he wasn't really one of us. You'll remember that, Tom?"  
"Indeed I do, for sure!" Looking as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, the Irishman grinned.

"So why the charming smile?" asked Mary, eyeing Tom suspiciously, knowing full well that he and Matthew were as thick as a pair of thieves.

"No reason," drawled Tom affably.

* * *

 **La Rosière, Brittany, France, July 1939.**

With Dermot at last pacified, Sybil asked Saiorse to take him and Kurt inside and put them back to bed, saying she and Aunt Edith would come up shortly to see that both the boys had settled down again for the night.

"Yes, Ma," replied Saiorse, sounding thoroughly bored and irritated by the whole business. Nonetheless, she held out a hand to each of the two boys, which they duly took, albeit somewhat unwillingly.

"Come on, you two. There's no such thing as silly ghosts. And even if they did exist, they wouldn't frighten me, for sure!"

* * *

Unbeknown to Saiorse, standing down below the terrace, but still well within earshot, Danny, Rob, and Max all overheard her pronouncement as to her complete lack of belief in the supernatural.

Danny laughed softly.

"Sis doesn't believe in ghosts, for sure," he croaked; caught the eyes of the other two upon him."Frog in the throat!" He laughed but for all that Danny didn't quite feel himself. "Grand! Well then ..."

"So what have you in mind?" asked Max with a grin.

"Wait and see!" laughed Danny.

"Look!" exclaimed Rob, excitedly. He jabbed his finger up at the velvet darkness of the night sky. "Shooting star! Quick, Max! Make a wish!"

Max grinned, promptly closed his eyes, and did as he had been bidden.

Thereafter, despite Danny and Rob ribbing him mercilessly and trying to wheedle out of him what it was he had wished for, wisely, Max demurred and kept that entirely to himself.

As for the practical joke Danny intended playing on Saiorse, at least for the present, that had to wait and, with all that came after, was then forgotten.

* * *

 **Wrangaton Signal Box, Devonshire, England, that very same evening.**

Here in the signal box beside the railway line, Claire Barton set down the heavy wicker basket containing her brother's supper on the table beside the door which, with it being a warm night, stood wide open.

"There you are, Edward. And this time, mind you bring the basket home with you in the morning!"

Standing out on the veranda, gazing into the darkness, her brother turned back to her and smiled. A moment later and he swung sharply on his heel.

"Look!" Edward pointed up into the blackness of the night sky.

"What?"

"Shooting star. Quick as youm likes, our Claire, make a wish!"

Claire did as she was bidden and closed her eyes.

"So, what did youm wish for?" asked Edward.

"If I told you, then my wish won't come true," laughed Claire.

Within the signal box a bell rang, heralding the imminent arrival of the evening stopping train from Exeter, and which demanded her brother's full attention, thus effectively preventing any further exchanges between the two of them. So while Edward busied himself pulling levers and clearing signals, with a coy, backward glance at her brother, Claire Barton turned and set off promptly down the steps of the signal box, back to the waiting pony and trap.

 **Author's Note:**

While many think the idea of wishing on a star comes from Walt Disney's film _Pinocchio_ , in fact, it is a centuries' old tradition, and prevalent in many cultures.

At the time of the story, Nantes, and the area around it, both still formed part of Brittany.

For what happened to Danny, Robert, Max, and little Fritz, in the summer of 1932, see Chapters 39-43 of _The Rome Express_.

British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain's words, spoken on 30th September 1938 following his return from Nazi Germany, are often misquoted as "Peace ** _in_** our time".


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Target Practice

 **La Rosière, later that same evening.**

In the fading light of the summer evening, sitting on a stone bench on the lower terrace overlooking the river, with their backs resting against a wall of sun warmed brick, Danny, Rob, and Max were discussing whether, with all the talk of war, if it came down to it, they could actually ever kill someone. Of the three of them, so far only Danny had any experience of what fighting actually entailed and, inevitably, the other two now looked to him, if not exactly for guidance, then for some kind of reassurance.

"Both of yous heard what I said there at dinner; that I went out to Spain to help fight the Fascists. All the same, I'm a lover not a fighter. So, the plain, simple truth is I really don't know if I could have killed anyone. But, one thing I do know for sure, is that I'm very glad I never got to find out," said Danny.

"What about you?" asked Max, turning to Robert.

"I don't know. I suppose so. I mean, if I had to. If it was my life or his. But it's not something I care to think about. Father told me about the very first time he killed a man, during the Great War. He said it was horrible. And afterwards, he was actually sick".

For a moment, no-one spoke; each alone with their thoughts.

"Well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that, for sure," said Danny. He yawned. "I'm for bed".

"What about Saiorse?" asked Rob with a grin.

"That'll have to wait!" chuckled Danny. "Jaysus, but I'm done in, for sure. Must be all the travelling, I suppose".

* * *

Following their return to the château, when Max found out that, as a surprise, in a couple of days time, his father had arranged for the three of them to go and meet Captain Duval at the military airfield near Nantes, he was absolutely delighted. So too Danny and Rob, neither of whom had seen, or indeed heard from, their Alpine saviour since the events which had brought them together back in the summer of 1932.

It would mean them taking the mid-morning train from Saint Florent into Nantes where, accompanied by their fathers, they would be met by a motor and driven out to the airfield which lay south west of the city, in Bouguenais. But now, said Friedrich, it was getting late, it had been a very long day, and it was high time all three of them were in bed.

Having said goodnight, the young men made their way quietly upstairs to the landing where, before dispersing to their rooms, they said their goodnights to each other, to be followed, in their turn, but a short while later by all of their parents. So, when the servants came outside to clear the dining table of the last of its detritus, and to lay the place settings for breakfast, it was to find the terrace bathed in moonlight and completely deserted.

* * *

 **La Rosière, upstairs, later that same night.**

 _In the hall of the Tigris Palace Hotel in Baghdad a hospital nurse was finishing a letter. Her fountain_ _‐_ _pen drove briskly over the paper._

 _... Well, dear, I think that's really all my news. I must say it's been nice to see a bit of the world—though England for me every time, thank you. The dirt and the mess in Baghdad you wouldn't believe—and not romantic at all like you'd think from the Arabian Nights! Of course, it's pretty just on the river, but the town itself is just awful—and no proper shops at all. Major Kelsey took me through the bazaars, and of course there's no denying they're quaint—but just a lot of rubbish and hammering away at copper pans till they make your headache—and not what I'd like to use myself unless I was sure about the cleaning. You've got to be so careful of verdigris with copper pans …_

 _Verdigris_ , wondered Mary. What on earth was _verdigris_? And cleaning?

The battery of copper pans and other kitchen utensils which she had seen on her, admittedly occasional, visits below stairs at Downton, insofar as she had ever paid them any attention at all, were brightly burnished. She had assumed they were like that always, but, from what was said here, unless was mistaken, or else being unduly melodramatic - and novelists sometimes were - it seemed they had to be cleaned and polished. Mary made a mental note to herself that on their return to Downton, she would go and make enquiries of Mrs. White, the cook.

Hearing the door to the dressing room open, she glanced up as, now attired in a pair of dark blue silk pyjamas, Matthew came into the lamp lit bedroom, on his part to find his wife seated in bed reading a book; something which Mary did but rarely did. Magazines, _Nash's -_ at least until it ceased publication - _Vogue_ , or _The Lady_ , were far more her style. A moment later and he had climbed in beside her; kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"Interesting?" Matthew nodded towards the book.  
"Yes. Surprisingly so. Actually, and don't laugh, so far, I'm rather enjoying it. Edith recommended it earlier this evening. Apparently, she and Friedrich know Mrs. Christie".

By way of explanation, Mary showed Matthew the cover of the book, _Murder In Mesopotamia_ , by Agatha Christie.

"Ah, yes. The crime novelist and archaeologist. I remember Edith telling us how Friedrich and she met Mrs. Christie and her husband, Max Mallowan, out in the Near East several years ago".

"And a signed copy, no less. Look".

Mary turned back to the title page.

The book was dedicated:

 _To my many archaeological friends in Iraq and Syria_

To which there was appended a further, hand written dedication:

 _To Friedrich and Edith, with fond memories of both Ur and Nineveh_

And signed:

 _Agatha_

 _July 1936_

"Well, Edith clearly moves in all the right circles," chuckled Matthew. "So, what's happened so far? I mean, in the story".

"A nurse, Amy Leatheran, has gone out to Mesopotamia. At first she was looking after a child but now she's been engaged to care for a Mrs. Louise Leidner. Her husband, Dr. Erich Leidner, is Swedish archaeologist, who is excavating an archaeological site at some Godforsaken place with a totally unpronounceable name".  
"Why?"  
"Why what? Why is he excavating an archaeological site?"  
"No, why does the woman, his wife, need a nurse?"

"She's unwell".  
"Yes, well I gathered that. But what precisely is it that's wrong with her?"

"Apparently, she has _fancies_ ".

"Does she now? Fancies?"

"Yes, fancies".  
"Which are?"

"I'm not quite sure. At least, not yet. A cocaine habit, possibly. Perhaps she's unhinged. Like the mad Mrs. Rochester, I suppose. But there's one thing I do know, though".

"Which is?"  
"I wouldn't care a jot for Mesopotamia. Not one bit of it. Not at all. Honestly, Matthew, I don't know how on earth Friedrich and Edith can stand working in such an awful place. The natives, the heat, the dirt. And all for some smashed china".

"Not china. Pottery, darling".

"Well, some broken bits of pottery then".  
"I think there's a little more to it than that, darling," laughed Matthew.

"Such as?"

"Well, tonight, after I'd witnessed those papers for him, while we were still in his study, Friedrich showed me a clay tablet. He said it was several thousand years old and had been made by people he called the Sumerians. It was written in something he said was _cuneiform_ , one of the earliest systems of writing in the world _._ To me, it looked just like a series of scratches on a piece of baked mud. Apparently, Edith's just finished translating it. Absolutely fascinating" _._

Mary lofted a brow. **That** sounded just like Edith. And several thousand years old? Well, just about the same age as the late Sir Anthony Strallan had been when he had begun courting Edith. No wonder she had such a fascination with old relics. Perhaps the tablet had been one of the silly old fool's billy do's.

"Fascinating?" Mary sounded decidedly unconvinced. "Well, maybe it is. But it certainly isn't my cup of tea. I mean, just listen to this:

 _It took us about four hours to get to_ _Hassanieh_ \- Mary stumbled over the pronunciation of the name - _which, to my surprise, was quite a big place. Very pretty it looked, too, before we got there from the other side of the river— standing up quite white and fairy‐like with minarets. It was a bit different, though, when one had crossed the bridge and come right into it. Such a smell and everything ramshackle and tumble‐down, and mud and mess everywhere"_.

"So you see, darling, not me at all".

Matthew grinned.

The image thus evoked, of Mary, out in the blistering heat of Mesopotamia, midst the flies, and the mud, trowel in hand, kneeling down in the dirt of an archaeological excavation, was one that was so utterly improbably, that it was altogether too funny for words. In the bed beside him, as if reading his thoughts, Mary shuddered involuntarily, closed her book, placed it on the bedside table, and a moment later, turned out the light.

"Darling ..." began Matthew softly.  
"Yes?" whispered Mary.

"After a day here, do I suppose that you're now quite recovered from the journey?"

Beside him in the shuttered darkness, Mary stretched languidly and sighed. Full marks to Edith, this bed was positively divine; both delightfully soft and comfortable.

"You suppose correctly".

"Well then. Speaking of fancies ..."

All thought of cuneiform script, baked clay tablets, and shards of pottery now forgotten, having loosened the drawstring of his pyjamas, Matthew rolled swiftly over to her side of the bed, slipped his arms around his beautiful wife, and drew her to him, his lips greedily seeking hers.

"Matthew, darling ..."

* * *

"... and as I said earlier, darling, I'm sure Max does".

"Well, a word with him wouldn't go amiss. Please, Friedrich, for my sake ..."

"All right. But then let me be the one to choose both the time and the place for it. Especially now, what with all the others here. Max would be mortified if I said anything to him in front of either Danny or Rob".

"Very well. But don't leave it too long".  
"Darling, I promise you, I won't. Now, changing the subject completely, to happier things, what have you planned for tomorrow? I heard you offering to take Sybil out to the dig".

"Yes, unlike Mary, Sybil seemed quite interested to see it. Besides which, I left the notes I've been making on _Portus Ratiatus_ there. So, while you're showing Matthew and Tom around the estate, I thought I'd motor out to the dig after breakfast. From what Sybil said, she intends bringing young Dermot along, so Kurt may as well come too, and keep him company. We'll be back for luncheon".

So saying, having kissed Friedrich lightly on his cheek, enfolded in the circle of his arms, Edith turned, and snapped out the light.

* * *

In the privacy of their own bedroom, in the fading afterglow of their lovemaking, both of them pleasurably naked, covered by but a single sheet, Tom and Sybil lay facing each other. Even though the window shutters had been closed for most of the day, the room was still very warm, and their recent physical exertions had left both of them breathless, soaked in sweat, and, at least for the present, sated, with Tom hoping that he was now fully forgiven for what had occurred earlier at the Gare Montparnasse.

"Well, Mr. Branson, after your admirable performance tonight, it seems that I shall have to allow you to disappear off to bookshops on your own rather more often!" Sybil grinned before leaning forward to capture Tom's mouth with her own, her tongue impatiently seeking his.

"So, darlin', am I forgiven, for sure?" he asked softly and with a smile to match her own.

"Did I say anything about you being forgiven?" Sybil asked slyly. "I don't recall that I did".

"No".

"Well, then ...

"Well then what?"

"Branson, I find your presumption, impertinent".

Tom stifled a chuckle but now played along, even managing to contrive a stammer.  
"Imp ... impertinent, milady?"

Sybil, likewise, did her very best to keep a straight face and not to giggle.

"Indeed," she said, now assuming an imperious, haughty tone. "In fact, Branson, having considered the matter further, I am firmly of the opinion that you have paid only part of your debt".

" _Only a part_ ..." Tom feigned a whimper.

"After all, should not a good servant always ensure that the needs of his employer are fully satisfied?"

"Indeed, milady".

"Very well then ..."

At that they could contain themselves no longer, and both burst out laughing.

A short while later, Tom found himself wondering if that slim volume of poetry by W B Yeats, _The Winding Stair And Other Poems_ , which he had chanced upon in the little bookshop he had found on the Rue des Trois-Frères below the Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur in Montmartre was worth all the trouble he was being put to tonight. However, when in his mind he re-visited, briefly, that very same question, with Sybil now writhing pleasurably beneath him again, moaning his name, raking his back with her nails, Tom decided that undoubtedly it was.

* * *

Meanwhile, somewhere downstairs, in the fastness of the sleeping château, an outside door opened quietly and then just as softly, closed.

* * *

 **La Rosière, the following morning.**

It was still only nine thirty in the morning.

However, when the Bransons and the Crawleys dutifully trooped down the main staircase of the château to breakfast, Tom and Sybil arm in arm, and with a decided spring in their step, it was to find the barometer in the hall showing _Very Dry_ and the mercury already rising in the thermometer on the wall out beside the balustrade of the terrace. With the bees droning drowsily among the roses and with not a cloud to be seen in the sky, it was obvious to everyone that it was going to be another very hot day.

"It says twenty one degrees, Uncle Friedrich," whispered Bobby, before resuming his place quietly at the dining table where, having finished drinking his bowl of hot chocolate, he now eyed with undisguised interest the large basket in the middle of the table, replenished with freshly baked croissants.

Breakfast here at Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith's château in France was certainly a different affair from what young Bobby was used to when they were at home in Blackrock in Ireland. For one thing, it was being eaten out of doors; something which the Bransons only ever did when they drove out to the Dublin Mountains for a picnic; while the breakfasts Da served up at home were nearly always either porridge, or else eggs, bacon, and potato bread, washed down with lashings of Barry's tea. And, as far as Bobby was concerned, chocolate, which was only ever eaten as a treat and never at breakfast, came in bars wrapped in paper, which Ma bought from Mr. Ryan who ran the grocer's on Main Street. But here in France, at least on Sundays, it seemed they did things differently.

Not that Bobby was complaining; indeed, far from it.

"Thank you, my boy".

Realising that some explanation was called for, laying down his copy of _La Croix_ , Friedrich went on to say that, for the duration of the time they were all here, he had appointed Bobby to the honorary post of Chief Temperature Watcher.

"What's _honorary_ mean, Da?" asked Bobby.

"It means that you don't get paid!" laughed Tom.

"Not necessarily. In this instance there is, I am happy to say, a small honorarium attached". Fumbling in one of the pockets of his waistcoat, Friedrich pulled out a small coin, a freshly minted two franc piece, which he slid across the surface of the table in the direction of his young Irish nephew. "But don't spend it all at once".

"Why, thanks, Uncle Friedrich".

Promptly pocketing the coin, Bobby grinned with obvious pleasure, while at the same time Edith caught sight of him looking once again at the croissants. Of Tom and Sybil's brood, eleven year old Bobby, mischievous and so full of life, was the one who, in appearance, most closely resembled darling Tom; was how Edith imagined her Irish brother-in-law must have looked as a young boy and, for this reason his aunt had a very soft spot for him.

"Help yourself, Bobby, darling. There's plenty more where those came from".

" **May I**?" The young boy could not contain his delight.  
Edith nodded.

"Of course".

Bobby didn't need to be told twice.

"These are really yummy! Aunt Edith. What did you say they were called?"

"Croissants. They come from Austria".  
" **Austria**?" Bobby sounded doubtful. Sensing his confusion, Edith realised another explanation was now in order.

"That's where they were first made. But now they're made here in France as well".

* * *

Breakfast was a decidedly leisurely, pleasurable affair, which nearly everyone took _al_ _fresco_ out here on the terrace. Save that was for Kurt, Dermot, and Emily who ate upstairs under the watchful eye of Nanny; as well as Mary who had taken hers in bed. Perhaps, said Tom, while pouring himself another cup of coffee, with a mischievous grin and a wink to the others present round the table, Aunt Mary was being supervised by Nanny too. Maybe, if she was very good and behaved herself, then Aunt Mary would be allowed out for a walk later. If not, then she would spend the day confined to the nursery.

"Tom, darling, you're absolutely incorrigible!" laughed Edith.

"You certainly caught the sun yesterday," said Sybil, looking across at Danny, who merely nodded. To be truthful, he didn't feel quite himself. Last night he had assumed it was the fault of the champagne; now he was not so sure.

"So, what are you three going to do, this morning?" asked Matthew from behind his copy of _The Times_.

"Target practice," said Robert promptly. "With Max's new rifle. Uncle Friedrich says there's a load of old bottles we can use".

"But, please to remember, not from down in the cellar!" warned Friedrich with a laugh. "I don't want you three taking pot shots at my _Pouilly Fumé_ by mistake!"

"Yes, that would indeed be completely unforgiveable!" laughed Matthew.

"Then a dip in the river from off the landing stage," added Max.

"And remember what I told you, darling. No diving in".

"Yes, Mama,". Max sighed.

"Well, if you two are ready for a wander around the estate?" Friedrich looked enquiringly first at Matthew, and then at Tom.  
"Certainly," said Matthew, laying down his newspaper.

"For sure," replied Tom.

"And make sure to ask Gaston about the empty bottles. He'll bring them out to you," called Friedrich, as together with both Matthew and Tom, he began descending the steps to the lower terrace.

* * *

With Simon, Bobby, and Rebecca having disappeared off inside the house, shortly afterwards Danny, Rob, and Max left the table too, in their case to go and fetch Max's hunting rifle, and then find Gaston to ask about the bottles for target practice. Now, with her mother and Aunt Edith deep in conversation over by the balustrade, the only one of them who was still seated at the table was Saiorse. Toying idly with a piece of bread on her plate, she grimaced. Jaysus! It was always the same, for sure, whether, here, when it was her brother Danny, Robert, and Max, together; or else when they were staying at Downton, then it was Danny and Robert, **together**.

Always **together**.

Morning, noon, and feckin' night! Robert! If only yous knew, just how I feel!

Keeping up the pretence that she felt anything other for him than what she did, was getting on Saiorse's nerves. After all, Robert had been in her sights for some considerable time. If only he would give some sign that she even existed. How she had felt about Max when they were children, that had been completely different; she had felt protective towards him. Her present feelings for Robert were something else entirely.

* * *

With the supply of wine bottles with which Gaston had furnished them now exhausted, and, at the eleventh hour, warned by Bobby of what was about to happen, with Simon having rescued Oscar, his much-loved teddy bear, kidnapped from upstairs, from being shot to pieces and ending up in a watery grave in the moat, Danny, Robert, and Max were now sitting on the parapet on the stone wall of the bridge which led across to the house. From somewhere high above them there came the unmistakable sound of an aeroplane. Glancing skywards, Max, who had retained his boyhood interest in all things aeronautical, promptly identified the lone grey green monoplane with its red, white, and blue roundels as a Morane-Saulnier belonging to the French Air Force.

"An M. S. 406 to be precise," he announced with a grin.

If but for a moment, all three of them found themselves transported back several years to that never-to-be-forgotten night, spent in the Alps in the summer of 1932, to a homely farmhouse kitchen, where Max, then all of nine years old, sat chatting knowledgeably in French, about matters aeronautical, to Captain Nicolas Duval.

* * *

A short while later, the three happy musketeers wandered into the high vaulted entrance hall of La Rosière, in search of something cool to drink.

"Does that look all right to you?" Max heard his mother ask of Aunt Sybil.

"I think so, although perhaps it might be better if you ..."

At the sight which greeted all three of them, Danny had to smile, as he saw his own mother move to stand at the other side of the long oak table, to contemplate what was obviously the object of both her and Aunt Edith's present endeavours. While Ma was accomplished in so many things, as far as Danny could remember, flower arranging was not something at which she excelled. On those comparatively rare occasions when Da brought home a bunch of flowers for her from Dublin, while Ma was always delighted to receive them, an earthenware pot fetched from the scullery, filled with cold water from the tap out back, and the flowers dropped in without any further ado always sufficed. Yet now, here was Ma helping Aunt Edith to arrange a mass of roses and greenery in a large blue and white Chinese vase.

"I thought you were going out for a spin with Aunt Edith?" asked Danny.  
"We are. Very shortly. It must be very hot out there". Sybil inclined her head towards the open doorway of the hall. The young men nodded their agreement.

"It is," said Robert.

"Then no wonder all of you have caught the sun," observed Aunt Edith with an indulgent smile; saw the three jostling each other in play. "Max, darling, you're not overdoing things, are you?"

"Mama, please! I'm fine". Max shook his head; then raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"Hot, for sure," agreed Danny; saw that now his own mother was searching his face.

"Ma? What ..."

"Danny, darling, your eyes are rather red".

Ma gently placed the back of her hand on his forehead. Submitting himself patiently to her ministrations, Danny grinned; knowing how she worried about them all. A moment later and he saw Ma frown.

"What is it?" he asked, clearly mystified. He sniffed and then suddenly sneezed.

But instead of answering him, Ma began feeling gently along the length of his lower jaw, while at the same time turning to Aunt Edith.

"When was it you said Kurt went down with measles?"

"The week before you arrived. But he's over it now. Why do you ask?"

"Danny, darling, is your throat at all sore?"  
"Why on earth do you want to know that, for sure? It's a little dry, Ma, but that's why we've come inside ... to find something to drink".

"Because, unless I'm very much mistaken, you, my lad, have measles".

"Measles? I thought only children got measles!"

"That's usually the way of it but unlike your brothers and your sister, who had it when they were little, you never did. What about you two?" Sybil eyed her nephews. "Rob? Max?"

"I caught it when I was six or thereabouts. And I know Si' and the girls have had it as well".

"And Max had it when he was about the same age. Sybil, darling, I think you're worrying unnecessarily".

"Ma, it's nothing, I tell you!" Danny grinned.

"Well, we'll soon see, if you develop a rash. In the meantime, while Aunt Edith and I are out, you should stay inside, out of the sun".

"But Ma, we're going for a swim, for sure!"

"Rob and Max might be, but you, my lad, most certainly are not".

"Oh, Ma!"  
"Don't you o _h Ma me,_ young man. Now, either you do as I say, and stay inside for the rest of today, or else I'll put you to bed myself this very instant. Which is it to be?"

Very well aware that standing beside him, Rob and Max were finding this whole exchange too funny for words, knowing as well that Ma was perfectly capable of carrying out her threat to see him put to bed, Danny was left with no option but to promise faithfully that he would stay inside the house. He sighed. However much he knew himself to be a man grown, had fought in a war, experienced the love of a woman, Ma could still demolish his carefully crafted poise with consummate ease.

"Yes, Ma". Danny sighed wearily.

"Cheer up, Danny! Max and I'll take it in turns to keep you company". This from Rob.

"Oh, thanks! And is that supposed to make me feel any better, for sure?" Danny contrived a mock grimace.

But, before the day was out, now with both a rash and temperature, feeling rather sorry for himself, Danny found himself in bed; his only consolation being that, everyone else had had measles already and, as Ma assured him, it wouldn't last very long.

* * *

For the present, however, instead of going for a swim, with Danny confined to the house - like his father, Tom, he was not a good patient - Max having offered to play him at chess, for the time being, before it fell to him in turn to sit and act as nursemaid, Robert had taken himself off for a mooch about the grounds. So, when, but a short while later, Robert approached the little wooden jetty, he was on his own and, as it so happened, also in time to see Saiorse, neat and trim in her black swimsuit, setting off in a rowing boat.

"I wouldn't, not if I were you. You know what Uncle Friedrich told us, last night, about the weir".

"Well, I'm not you. So I'll thank you to mind your own bloody business, Mr. Crawley!" Saiorse scowled at Robert and continued rowing away from the jetty.

"Have it your own way then!"

"I will!"

Robert turned on his heel and began to walk quickly back through the belt of trees which here in this particular spot ran down almost to the water's edge. Then, but a few moments later, alerted by Saiorse's screams, he was racing back down to the jetty; saw that she had lost one of the oars and, in a futile attempt to retrieve it, had overbalanced, fallen into the water, was even now drifting dangerously towards the weir and the main channel of the river.

Without a moment's thought for his own safety, running like the wind, Robert raced out along the jetty and dived fully clothed headlong into the water, swimming for Saiorse just as fast as he could. Although he himself was a good swimmer, the current was strong, and had it not been for the presence of an overhanging branch, along with the now empty skiff, it is likely that both of them would have been swept over the weir, and drowned.

* * *

"You're an absolute idiot! You could have drowned!"  
"I could say the same about you!"  
Saiorse threw him her towel.

"Here, you'll catch your death!"

"Do you really care if I do?"

"No, not a bit. Apart from all the trouble it would cause. Now, get out of those wet clothes, for sure!"

Robert did as he was bidden, kicking off his canvas shoes while Saiorse's nimble fingers helped him make short work of the buttons of his shirt.

"I can manage, thank you".

"Those too!" she said ignoring his protest and pointing to his shorts. A moment later, standing before her in nothing but his underpants, Robert began briskly rubbing himself dry with Saiorse's bathing towel.

* * *

"Why ... why do you hate me so much?" he asked a short while later, as they sat together on the jetty in the warm sunshine, waiting for his clothes to dry. Idly, Robert skimmed a pebble into the water.

"I don't!"  
"Yes, you do".

At that, Saiorse turned her head away. Sat in her swimsuit, her arms clasped about her, staring somewhere into the middle distance, she gazed silently out over the grey waters of the Loire.

The silence lengthened.

"Because ... because ... you're always with Danny," she said at last. She began to chew on her lower lip. "It's like ... like I don't even exist! There! I've said it! So, now you know!"

* * *

"Have you any idea?"  
"About what?" she asked, not even deigning to look at him for fear that he would see the tears in her eyes.

"What it is you do to me," he said softly.

Turning her head, she caught sight of the growing erection within his underpants.

"I think I do," she said.

"No idea at all," Robert repeated. Too late, he became aware of her eyes upon him; realised what she had seen. He blushed.

"I think I have," she said huskily.

"Saiorse!" he moaned and reached for her.

* * *

This indeed was heavenly.

And, with no-one about to see her do so, Mary stretched languidly and let out a protracted sigh.

After last night, with Matthew proving so deliciously attentive to her physical needs, this morning breakfast taken upstairs in bed, followed by a languid bath, and now, having been dressed by her maid, here she was, seated beneath a parasol, reclining on a _chaise longue,_ on the terrace in the warm sunshine.

When, finally, Mary had drifted downstairs, the clock in the hall was striking eleven, and she found the whole house hushed and quiet; save that was for the soft murmur of voices coming from Friedrich's study, which turned out to be Danny and Max hunched over a game of chess. Unobserved by either of her two nephews, Mary made her way quietly outside onto the terrace, which she found to be completely deserted.

With Edith and Sybil having driven off in the motor to view the archaeological excavation, Matthew, Tom, and Friedrich occupied with whatever it was they were doing around the estate, and all the children, both young and older, apparently gainfully occupied, Mary had the terrace to herself. She eyed the book which she had brought down with her, lying on the wicker table beside the _chaise longue_. Perhaps a further couple of chapters before luncheon? Having settled herself more comfortably back against the cushions, having reached for the book, Mary continued with her reading.

* * *

 _She was quite dead—must have been dead an hour at least. The cause of death was perfectly plain—a terrific blow on the front of the head just over the right temple. She must have got up from the bed and been struck down where she stood._

* * *

As chapter had succeeded chapter, fortunately none of them were very long, no more than a few pages each, Mary had found herself increasingly irritated by Mrs. Leidner and her ridiculous fancies. Had she been out in Mesopotamia, Mary was firmly of the opinion that she would have quickly lost patience with the silly goose. And now, the foolish creature had been murdered. Well, given all the circumstances, that was hardly surprising; she really was the most irritating of women. Had Mary herself been in Hassanieh, she thought she might very well have done the deed herself!

And while she would have been the first to admit that she had no knowledge whatsoever of crime, Mary thought the whole setting contrived. After all, she had never heard of anyone being murdered in the middle of an archaeological excavation. It was all far too ridiculous for words, at which point Mary lost patience with the whole story, snapped shut the book, and slammed it down on the table.

Honestly!

* * *

 **Somewhere north of the Loire.**

With Edith at the wheel of the powerful Hispano Suiza, and Sybil seated in the rear of the open topped motor, Kurt on one side of her and Dermot on the other, their route over to the site of the archaeological excavation took them northwards from the château and the river. On they went, motoring through the rolling sweep of the vineyards and a handful of sleepy villages, each of which was clustered round a little church and where, save for a few beret clad locals sitting outside beneath the faded awning of a bar, there was little sign of life; all of the stone built, slate roofed, sun drenched houses shuttered fast against the heat of the morning.

Eventually, after about half an hour, they turned off the road, onto a rutted track which brought them to an old barn which, said Edith, was all that remained of an abbey that until the French Revolution had stood close by, and which they were using presently as a store for both equipment and for finds from the dig. With Edith having brought the motor to a stop beneath the shade of a tree, they all clambered out, and made their way across to the barn.

"The dig's over there," explained Edith, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun, and pointing.

This being Sunday morning, there was no-one else about. In fact, there was no sign of life whatsoever; the excavation appearing totally deserted. From this distance, the only sign that anything at all was taking place hereabouts were several large mounds of earth and a clutch of battered wheelbarrows, reminding Sybil of the empty luggage trolleys she had seen at the Gare Montparnasse, in Paris.

"And darling Tom? Have you now forgiven him?" asked Edith, glancing coyly at Sybil over her shoulder, while unlocking the huge wooden doors of the barn.

Standing beside her, holding the hands of the boys, Sybil grinned.

"Of course. But only after I made him pay special attention to me last night. Do you know, he actually ..."

"Oh, darling, spare me the details!" Edith waved her sister into silence. "As for last night, after we'd all gone up to bed, before the two of us went to sleep, Friedrich and I spent most of the time discussing Max. How he needs to take much better care of himself. Friedrich's promised to have a word with him".

"Max. Now we're alone, how is he? He seems very well indeed".  
"Yes, that's just it. He's absolutely fine. Well, not fine. But being a nurse you'll understand what I mean".

Sybil nodded.

"Remission".

"Yes, exactly so. In fact, he's been like it for months, after that one really bad attack, when we left Austria last year. The odd incidence but nothing to speak of. But that's how it is. One dares to hope that ... Only one shouldn't of course. Not with haemophilia. After all, we've seen this before, himself included. The picture of health. Max forgets. We all do. And then suddenly, it starts". There came a click as the key turned in the lock. "Ah, there we are. Now, let's see ..."

* * *

Within the high roofed, stone built barn it was both dim and cool, the light filtering in but fitfully through the narrow lancet windows. Having lit a couple of hurricane lanterns, Edith led Sybil and the boys around, weaving their way carefully among a collection of spades, shovels and pick axes, along with several large chests, containing all manner of smaller tools such as chisels, trowels, sieves, and so forth.

Then up and down between a range of slatted wooden shelves, upon which there rested a series of neatly ordered finds from the dig; Edith lifting up one of the lanterns and pointing out certain items which she thought they might find of particular interest. Among these, was a beautiful jug, made of greenish glass, as well as a great deal of pottery. A handful of bowls and platters which were complete, along with many more fragments, all of a distinctive shade of terracotta which Edith said was called Samian ware. And, of particular interest to the two boys, a scattering of coins.

"That's the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. See, there's his head," said Edith, placing the small coin in the palm of Dermot's hand. "And this one's the Emperor Hadrian, who built the wall across the north of Britain".

"Are they very old, for sure?" asked Dermot.

"Indeed they are darling".  
"As old as Da?" persisted Dermot.

"Even older than your Da!" laughed Edith. "Hundreds and hundreds of years old!" At which startling revelation, that there were indeed things even older than his Da, Dermot's eyes grew very round, while his aunt carefully replaced the coins from whence they had come.

"It looks like my dispensary at the hospital. Everything very neatly ordered," observed Sybil.

"Oh, that's Friedrich for you. A place for everything, and everything in its place. He's absolutely meticulous when it comes to that sort of thing!"

"Tom's just the same; at least with his desk and his workshop. I only wish the same order extended to how he treats his clothes".

But Edith didn't answer her; at least, not directly.

"Now that's rather odd ... I thought there was ..." Edith sounded puzzled.  
"Is there something wrong?" asked Sybil.

"No. Not wrong exactly. But, having said what I said, a moment ago, about everything being in its place, I thought there was a piece of sculpture - part of a statue - on this shelf. Someone must have moved it. No matter". Edith lifted her lantern and looked about her. "No, it doesn't seem to be here. Perhaps Friedrich took it back with him to La Rosière".

* * *

With Edith having found her notes, leaving the coolness and dark of the barn behind, they came out into the bright heat of the day. Once she had locked up, evidently still mystified as to the whereabouts of the piece of sculpture, before they left for home, Edith offered to show Sybil the mosaic which they were uncovering in what had once been one of the villa's principal rooms.

"It really is quite splendid. Friedrich's over the moon about it. Obviously it's not complete, but there's enough left to see how beautiful it must once have been. Come, I'll show you. It's this way".

* * *

While their mothers viewed the mosaic which, explained Edith, depicted a hunt, with two men on horseback accompanied by a pair of hounds pursuing a deer, Dermot and Kurt wandered off, down along a shallow trench, which followed the line of one of the walls of the villa.

"Don't go too far, boys!" called Sybil.

"They'll be all right. Now as I was saying, you can see the two huntsmen. And there's the ..."

But Edith never finished what it was she was about to say because but a moment later, Dermot and Kurt were running back towards them, both of them clearly distressed.

"Whatever is it, darling?" asked Sybil, going down on her knees in front of her son.  
"There's a m … m … man down there!"

Sybil looked up; there was no-one to be seen.

"A man? What kind of man, darling? Did he frighten you?"

Dermot shook his head.

"Er ist tot," said Kurt. He shrugged.

"Was hast du gesagt?" asked Edith. From her sister's tone, Sybil sensed immediately that something was wrong.

"Er ist tot," repeated Kurt.

"Tot?" Sybil looked enquiringly at Edith for some form of enlightenment.

"Kurt says the man is … dead".

"Dead?"

"Dead drunk more like," said Edith dismissively. "We've had problems out here with the odd tramp".

Kurt shook his head.

"Er ist tot," he said more forcefully. "Im Graben". He pointed back the way Dermot and he had just come.

"Im Graben? "  
Kurt nodded.

"He says that the man 's lying dead in the trench. Over there. That being so, I suppose we'd better go and take a look".

"Edith, surely you don't mean to …"  
"Sybil, darling, all those years ago, after Tom was beaten up at the Shelbourne Hotel, don't you remember telling Mary and I not to be so sensitive?"

"Yes, I remember. But what about Dermot and Kurt?"  
"Well, they can't stay here, can they? You'd better bring them along". So saying, and without further ado, Edith marched off in the direction from whence the boys had come, to investigate whether or not what they had said was true.

* * *

Regrettably, it was.

The man lay sprawled, face down in the trench.

Back in Dublin, Sybil had witnessed death many times at the hospital, had heard too from Tom a litany of brutal executions and shootings which had taken place during the Irish War of Independence and then again in the Civil War. However, her sheltered upbringing at Downton had not prepared her for this. Nonetheless, just like driving, Edith seemed to be taking all of it in her stride. Quite literally in fact, clambering down into the trench, crouching beside the body, examining, with a practised eye, the wound to the back of the man's head; now a mass of congealed blood, black with buzzing flies.

"Early twenties, I should say, and from his clothes, not a tramp. I would think, a Walther PPK". Edith's tone was matter-of-fact. Almost clinical.

"A what?" asked Sybil weakly, holding Dermot and Kurt tightly by the hand, both of whom now seemed inordinately fascinated by what it was Edith was doing.  
"A Walther PPK. A type of revolver," explained Edith with the same dismissive detachment. "Not only has Friedrich taught me how to defend myself with a pistol, but I've also learned a great deal from him about firearms".

Now, seeing her sister rifling through the man's pockets, first those of his jacket, then his trousers, Sybil gasped in amazement.

"Edith, what on earth do you think you're doing?"  
"What does it look like? Seeing if there's any means of identifying who he is. Or, rather, **was**. Sybil, darling, don't look so appalled. This kind of thing … happens quite often … out in Mesopotamia. Well, not that often. But it happens. A fight among the Arab workers and one of them ends up like this poor chap. Only, out there, it's usually with his throat cut. No. Damn it! Not a blasted thing".

Obviously frustrated, dusting off her hands, Edith stood up; looked down dispassionately again at the body. "Well, nothing can be done for **him** but, all the same, the matter needs reporting immediately. To the police. Let me see, the nearest gendarmerie is in …"

 **Author's Note:**

 _Nash's Pall Mall Magazine_ finally ceased publication in September 1937.

 _Murder in Mesopotamia_ **,** by Agatha Christie, was first published in July 1936.

Mrs. Rochester - see _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Brontë.

Billy do's - a short love letter from the French _billet doux_.

 _Portus Ratiatus_ \- modern day Rezé.

 _The Winding Stair And Other Poems_ by W. B. Yeats, was published in 1933.

That croissants originated in Austria is perfectly true.

 _La Croix_ , a daily French Roman Catholic newspaper, still in circulation today.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Knights Of The Skies

 **Gare de Saint-Florent-sur-Loire, July 1939** **.**

Promptly at ten o'clock, bound for Nantes by way of Ancenis and its ruined medieval castle overlooking the Loire, as well as a handful of other places in between, the morning train departed from the Gare de Saint-Florent-sur-Loire, clattering out of the wayside station in a cloud of steam and smoke.

Nestled sleepily in a loop of the meandering river, except on market days, the little station saw few passengers. When, earlier this morning, at half past nine, the gleaming pale blue open tourer, complete with polished metal flying stork atop its radiator cap, had purred sedately into the station yard, it was obvious to the railway staff on duty that today would unfold rather differently from what was customarily the case; here at this obscure outpost of the recently formed SNCF: the Société Nationale des Chemins de fer Français.

* * *

Driven down to the railway station from the château by Tom who, ever since he had first laid eyes on the six cylinder Hispano Suiza, had been positively itching to seat himself behind the steering wheel, the tourer drew smoothly to a precise stop directly outside a green door marked _Voyageurs_. As they were all clambering out of the motor Matthew remarked that what was missing was Tom being attired in his old livery and then they could have been back at Downton before the Great War.

Tom slammed shut the driver's door; cocked a quizzical eye at his English brother-in-law.

"For sure? If so, how then do you explain these?" With a grin, he nodded towards where Friedrich, Danny, Rob, and Max waited beside the car.

Matthew smiled; quoted promptly from memory:

 _Time present and time past_

 _Are both perhaps present in time future_

 _And time future contained in time past._

Tom nodded his agreement.

"Eliot," he said, softly approving. "Well, who knows, maybe they are, for sure".

* * *

A few moments later found the six of them standing beneath the high ceiling of the salle d'attente, all requiring to board the stopping train to Nantes, something which the chef de gare, resplendent in his new uniform, had never ever seen the like.

Un jour à marquer d'une pierre blanche _._

A Red Letter Day indeed.

* * *

"So then, any further thoughts as to what we make of it all, for sure?" asked Tom seating himself back against the hard upholstery of the comparatively spartan second class compartment. While there were only a handful of other passengers in the open saloon, no doubt all of them French, nonetheless, wisely, Tom kept his voice low.

"As I said earlier, it certainly is most bizarre," observed Friedrich, quietly.

Matthew nodded his head in agreement.

"Agreed. Decidedly so. And, as Mary observed at the time, _life imitating fiction_ ".

"For sure," drawled Tom. "What's more, as Edith said at breakfast, _nothing seems to make any sense_ ".

Seated on the banquette opposite their fathers, Danny, Rob, and Max exchanged glances. Like everyone else in the family, none of them had experienced anything quite like what had occurred several days ago at the archaeological dig north of the river; presently under investigation by the French police with the identity of the man found lying in the trench by Dermot and Kurt, still unknown.

Danny sneezed and blew his nose.

"How are you now, son?" asked Tom changing the subject; well aware that Danny was still feeling a little under the weather.

Nonetheless, earlier this same morning, despite Sybil clucking at him like a mother hen, having been cooped up in his bedroom for the last five days, Danny had insisted on coming along with the rest of them in order to meet Captain Duval; the rendez-vous already having been postponed to allow Danny time to recover from his bout of measles.

For measles it most certainly had been, but not caught from Kurt; Sybil deciding that Danny must have contracted the illness before they left Ireland. Then remembering that the children of the local chemist in Blackrock had gone down with the same complaint a few weeks earlier before the Bransons had sailed for England.

"A lot better, Da. Still a bit groggy. But even if I'd caught leprosy, I don't t'ink, for sure, I could have put up with Ma fussing me a moment longer! I know she means well, Da, but honestly! Taking my temperature every other hour, bringing me up cold drinks, offering to sit and read to me ..." Danny shook his head in mock disbelief. He grinned.

"Winnie the Pooh, eh?" Tom chuckled.

Danny pulled a face at his Da.

Back in the '20s, when Danny, Saiorse, and Bobby had been children, if ever they were ill and confined to bed, more often than not it had been the stories recounting the doings of Winnie the Pooh and his friends in the Hundred Acre Wood which had been read to them by Ma.

"Da, in case yous hadn't realised ..."  
"I know, I know, son, yous not five years old any more!"  
"For sure!"

"Danny, yous must know by now for sure that your Ma's in her element whenever one of us is ill!"

"Don't I know it, Da! Added to which, I had to put up with these two". Danny jabbed a thumb, first at Rob, and then at Max, seated either side of him. "One or the other, or worse still **both** , popping in and out of my room, for sure. Just to see how I was, offering to sit with me, play cards, chess, draughts, help me with a jigsaw ... Jaysus!"

"Well, thanks a lot!" Rob grinned. "Next time you're ill, we won't bother, will we Max?"  
"No, for sure!" laughed Max, making use of what was one of Danny's stock phrases. Suddenly, the train jolted. Max winced and clutched at his right elbow; something which did not go unnoticed by his father sitting opposite.

"Max?"Was ist es?"

"Es ist nichts, Vater," replied Max somewhat brusquely.

He turned his head away, gazed instead out of the window at the broad sweep of the river passing by outside the window of the railway carriage. Max had so wanted this day to be perfect and now it seemed that Fate was conspiring against him. At the moment, the pain from his elbow was but a dull ache. With luck, it might fade away. At times, it had done just that. And, while he loved them both dearly, knew that his parents, especially Mama, wanted to protect him, at times, their constant fussing proved well nigh unbearable.

* * *

In no sense was Max jealous; it was not in his nature to be so but how he envied his cousins the fortune of their good health. And now, as he continued to gaze out of the carriage window, with the thought of that firmly in the forefront of his mind, there was something else too. For all of his good-natured denials, it seemed that while he had been out there in Spain, Danny really had experienced the love of a woman.

And, from what Max had observed and overheard earlier this morning while sauntering back through the woods, seemingly without a care in the world, it seemed that Rob had now done so too. Rob and Saiorse, whoever would have thought it? Not that Rob had said anything to him, nor he thought to Danny either, about the burgeoning romance between him and Saiorse. Inwardly, Max sighed. If only ... if only he could be like Danny and Rob, fall in love, marry, have children. But, given what was wrong with him, Max knew that to be a forlorn hope.

Yet, while Papa and Mama might believe him to be an innocent when it came to matters sexual, Max knew all about the facts of life; indeed, had done so ever since the long, hot summer of '32. To tell the truth, it was something which both he and Rob had learned from Danny, who, back then, it transpired was far more knowing of such matters than were his cousins.

* * *

 **Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, Tuscany, Italy, August 1932.**

Laughing, joking, happy and contented in each other's company, occasionally glimpsed from afar by their doting parents, the three boys had spent most of the morning mooching about the gardens of the villa, spending part of the time looking for lizards both in the cracks between the flagstones and in crevices in the stone walls. Now, here they were, out of the heat of the sun, seated together on a pile of old sacking, in the cool dark of the old stables down below the villa. Danny had just lit a cigarette and presently was trying to impress Rob and Max by blowing smoke rings into the air, as well as continuing telling his cousins something of the facts of life. A moment later and he had passed the cigarette across to Rob.

"... so, that's what the man does, for sure. Da and Ma told me and my sis all about it," Danny added as an afterthought, so as to reassure Rob and Max that what he had just told them was all perfectly true. Even so, despite Danny sounding so knowledgeable on the matter presently under discussion, Rob and Max exchanged disbelieving glances. That Danny's parents had actually talked to him and his sister about such a naughty thing seemed too fantastical for words.

"You mean the man actually puts his ... " Robert couldn't bring himself to mention the word. Instead he flushed red.

" _Mickey_ ," said Danny helpfully.

"In the lady's ...?" Robert gulped. He couldn't imagine for one minute his own parents doing something ... something so disgusting.

Danny nodded.

"Tommy rot!" exclaimed Robert, while Max simply wrinkled his nose. Aged all of nine years, he was even more disbelieving than Rob had been of what Danny had just told them.

"Das klingt widerlich," he said softly; more to himself than to his two cousins of whom, to be truthful, Max was still somewhat in awe.

"Pardon?" asked Danny.

Max shook his head. He wasn't at all sure what the word was in English so, in order to convey what it was he meant, he screwed up his face; Danny laughing at the expression of revulsion now etched across Max's cherubic features.

"It's perfectly true, I tell yous, for sure! Just like I told yous. Cross my heart and hope to die. That's how babies are made".

"You mean, if I did that to a girl, she'd start having a baby?" Robert sounded equally doubtful.

"Well, yous have to be old enough to do it first," said Danny knowingly.

"Old enough? When's old enough?"

"When yous thirteen or so. Least that's what my Da told me. Things happen to yous". Danny tapped the side of his nose.

"What do you mean, _things happen to you_?" Again Rob sounded decidedly doubtful that what he was hearing was the truth of it.

"To your body, yous eejit!"

"What sort of things?" persisted Robert.

For his part, Max said nothing, tried instead to keep pace with what he was hearing. After all, if he didn't do his very best to follow what was being said now, given what the three of them were discussing, he could hardly go and ask Papa or, God forbid, Mama, for clarification later.

"Well, for one thing, your mickey gets bigger, your voice gets deeper, and then yous have to start shaving, for sure". Rob and Max eyed each other and then instinctively, independently, each cautiously stroked their boyish chins before looking down fleetingly between their legs. Seeing them do so, Danny burst out laughing.

"Like I said, you're making it up. All of it," snorted Robert.

"No, I'm not," replied Danny and with some justifiable sense of righteous indignation.

"Yes, you are!"

"And like I told yous, it's all true, for sure". With an exaggerated flourish, Danny now crossed his heart again.

"So what other things happen then?" asked Rob.

"Well, before I tell the both of yous about that, Max, do yous want a fag, for sure?" asked Danny, obligingly holding out the rather crumpled packet of Woodbines. Knowing that neither Da, nor, more importantly, Ma, would approve, if they found out that he had been smoking, Danny took care to see that the lone packet of Woodbines was kept well out of sight; either hidden beneath a loose floorboard in his bedroom, or else stuffed, along with all manner of other odds and ends he had collected, deep inside one of the pockets of his shorts.

"Max, have you ever smoked a cigarette before?" asked Rob, making it clear what it was he was asking the younger boy by a series of rapid hand gestures.

Max promptly nodded his head several times. After all, he had no intention of appearing a complete and utter dummkop in front of his two older cousins. Quickly he took a cigarette from out of the packet Danny was holding and straightaway put it to his lips; displaying outwardly at least, Max hoped, a show of confidence which, inwardly, he did not feel at all.

"Grand like!" Danny struck a match.

A minute or so later and Max was inhaling deeply, just as he had watched Danny do a short while earlier. In fact, rather too deeply; especially for someone who had never smoked a cigarette in his life.

* * *

Max was feeling decidedly ill, looking, or so said Rob later that day, rather _green about the gills_.

"What's the matter, old chap?" asked Rob solicitously.

"P'raps they don't smoke these kind of fags in Austria," said Danny doubtfully, looking first at Max who, with every passing minute, was growing distinctly paler, and then at the creased packet of Woodbines, before stuffing it back into the pocket of his shorts.

"Mir ist schlecht," Max croaked, coughing, and with both of his eyes watering.

Neither Danny nor Robert spoke any German, but for all of his bravado, it was obvious that young Max was about to be sick.

* * *

It is said that necessity is the mother of invention ...

"Max, darling ..."

"Jaysus! Feckin' hell!" hissed Danny.

"Crikey, it's Aunt Edith!" exclaimed Rob who, along with Danny, had just helped manhandle young Max gently into the nearest of the empty stalls in the stables and where their young Austrian cousin was now retching up his guts with gusto.

"Ah, there you are!" exclaimed Aunt Edith, catching sight of both Danny and Robert, arms folded, legs akimbo, standing squarely in the far doorway of the stables. "Is Max with you? I can't seem to find him".

"No, sorry, Aunt Edith".

Continuing to stand stock still so that Aunt Edith couldn't see in behind them, with Max but feet away, throwing up the contents of his stomach, lying like a pair of seasoned troopers, Danny and Rob asserted that they hadn't seen him. At least, not for a while.

"Not since he went back up to the house".

"That was about ten minutes ago, wasn't it, Danny?"

Dutifully, Danny nodded his head.

"For sure!"

"Ah, so he's all right then. Well, if he comes down here in search of you two, please make sure and tell him that I was looking for him".

"We will," promised Danny and Rob, between them contriving to present to their much-loved aunt a picture of youthful, boyish innocence, while behind them, still lying prostrate in the straw of the stall, feeling rather sorry for himself, Max was at last starting to recover from his ill fated attempt to smoke his first cigarette.

Which was why, at least for the present, a full stop was then put to any further discussion between the Three Musketeers of the matter which had been under consideration. Not that it was forgotten; indeed far from it, for it was resurrected a few days later, this time, in the more palatial surroundings of one of the ornate gazebos at the end of the terrace overlooking Florence. After which, whether or not either of them believed what Danny had now told them, both Robert and Max were much better informed as to the facts of life than they had been before. And which was how, young Max, for all his sheltered upbringing, and at the tender age of but nine years old, came to learn all about them.

* * *

 **Boathouse, La Rosière** , **July 1939.**

Here, down by the water's edge, in the loft over the old boathouse, just above where both Robert and Saiorse were now lying, facing each other atop a makeshift bed contrived from out of sacking, sailcloth, and hay, the morning sunlight filtered but fitfully in through the grimy, cob webbed, cracked panes of the small window set in the gable, while outside the skiff, which Rob had recovered, by wading into the river, rode gently against the jetty.

With his hands linked together behind his head, still pleasurably naked, twiddling his bare toes, Robert smiled contentedly while he watched Saiorse rise and slowly begin pulling on her clothes, before attempting to try and do something with her hair. In the end, deciding the bother of it all was not worth the effort, she gave up, patting it down, and covering it with her green and white headscarf.

"There, that'll have to do for now, for sure. What about you? Shouldn't you be getting dressed too?" Saiorse took in Robert's still naked form lying beside her in the hay.

"Well, what about if we ... give it another go". With a nod, he indicated his now rapidly stiffening erection.

Like a cat scenting its prey, Saiorse eyed Robert's growing arousal with undisguised interest; did not resist him as he reached up and drew her down to him in the hay.

"Rob, darlin' ..."

However, clearly audible in the heat and stillness of the summer's day, the sound of a rapidly approaching motor prevented the both of them from resuming their lovemaking ... if only for the present.

* * *

 **La Rosière** , **later that same morning.**

Upon hearing the sound of the motor, its horn blaring stridently, everyone scrambled for the main door of the house. All that was save Danny who was upstairs in bed, but including Rob and Saiorse who, all smiles, holding hands, which did not go unnoticed by Simon, had just re-joined the others out here on the terrace.

Everybody was in time to see the powerful Hispano Suiza approaching the château at a turn of speed which some would doubtless have considered reckless, and with young Dermot and Kurt both waving excitedly from off the rear seat. In a cloud of dust, gravel flying from beneath its wheels, the motor screeched to a stop in the forecourt, with everyone, especially Friedrich and Tom, thoroughly relieved to see Edith, Sybil, and the two boys arrived back here at La Rosière, safe and well.

For his part, Tom found himself thinking back to when he had been a chauffeur; imagining himself arriving at speed at the front door of Downton Abbey with the Dowager Countess seated in the rear of the Renault. While it might have given the old girl a thrill, or more likely a touch of the vapours, Mr. Carson would have dismissed Tom on the spot. Now, even before the majordomo had reached the motor, both Dermot and Kurt had clambered off the back seat, were out of the car, and running pell-mell towards where their two fathers were standing beside the main door of the house.

"Where on earth have you all been, for sure? We were beginning to worry. We thought there'd ..." began a decidedly relieved Tom.

"Papa, es war ein Mord!" yelled Kurt, nodding his head repeatedly in affirmation that what he had just said was the truth of it.

"Ein Mord?" Friedrich sounded appalled.

"Da! Da! There's been a murder, for sure!" Dermot fairly barrelled into his father's outstretched arms; heedless of the gravel and without a thought for his trousers, Tom having gone down on his knees, impulsively hugging the little boy to him, much as he had done all those years ago at the Gare Maritime in Calais, to Bobby, when he was the same age as Dermot was now.

"Now, hold on, son, for sure". Tom looked up questioningly at Sybil, who, hatless, despite the warmth of the sun, her face ashen, had hurried across the forecourt and was now standing in front of him behind Dermot.

"I'm afraid it's all perfectly true. I only wish it wasn't and that the boys hadn't had to see what they have".

"What do you mean, _a murder_?"

"That's what it looks like".

"But how? Where?"  
"Out at the dig. The boys found the body of a man, lying face down in a trench. According to Edith, he'd been shot in the back of the head".

"Es ist nicht mögliche, Liebling," said Friedrich, taking Edith by the hand.

"I'm very much afraid that it is," she replied, joining the group on the doorstep, eyeing both Gaston and the maids standing respectfully in attendance, seemingly unhearing of what was being discussed. At which point, Edith was reminded forcibly of the words of her grandmother, the late Dowager Countess: _pas, devant les domestiques_. "May I suggest that we all go inside out of the heat. Then I'll try and explain what it is that's happened".

* * *

Here, standing behind everyone else, unobserved, or so they thought, out of sight, lost in the shadows at the foot of the main staircase, as the rest of the family passed by into the coolness of the house, Robert turned to Saiorse.

"I meant what I said earlier ..." he whispered. She felt his arm slip about her slender waist.

"And what was that?" asked Saiorse coyly, continuing to look steadfastly ahead of her.

"About being in love with you ..."

"Oh, that. For sure".

"What about you?"

"I would have thought, given what we've just done, that was rather obvious!" Saiorse turned her head and smiled at him.

Rob grinned.

"So, after luncheon, why don't we ..." With his free hand, Robert playfully squeezed Saiorse's ample rump. She stifled a squeal but only just.

"What are you two up to?" Simon asked, sidling up beside them.

Quickly Robert removed both his hand from Saiorse's bottom and his arm from around her waist.

"Nothing!"  
"Never you mind!" replied Saiorse, before sticking out her tongue at Simon.

* * *

"So there it is," ended Edith concluding, over a very late luncheon, her tale of what had transpired out at the dig close to the ruins of the Abbaye Saint-Pierre-des-Bois.

"What about the boys?" asked Tom. "No harm done?"

"None at all. They're fine. Both of them," asserted Sybil confidently. "That is, once they'd got over the initial shock of it all. On the way back here, Dermot and Kurt turned detective with all sorts of ideas as to who the man was and what it was he'd been doing. In the circumstances, it seemed best to let them have their head".

"For sure". Tom smiled.

"So, very much a case of life imitating fiction," observed Mary quietly.

Edith looked blankly at her sister. For once comprehension failed her.

"Mary, darling, I don't see quite what you mean ..."

" _Murder in Mesopotamia_ "? Mary arched an expressive brow.

Realisation swiftly dawning, Edith smiled.

"Why, yes! Of course!"

"And the police have absolutely no idea as to who the man was?" asked Matthew.

"Apparently not but no doubt in due course they will".

"And the missing head of the statue? You say the police found it later, in another trench nearby?"

Edith nodded.

"Apparently so. Yes".

"But what on earth was it doing out there?" asked Friedrich, clearly mystified. "When last I saw it, it was in the barn along with all the other finds".

"I've no idea. They took it away with them ... for examination".

"Examination? What on earth for?"  
"I don't rightly know".

"So, are we to expect a visit here from officers of the Sûreté?" Friedrich set down his glass.

"Yes, I suppose we must. But, at least for the present, all we can do is wait".

Which indeed proved to be the case.

But thereafter, matters were to take a turn which none of them could have foreseen.

* * *

 **Military Airfield, Bouguenais, July 1939, five days later.**

As Danny, Rob, and Max stepped down from the military motor which had brought both them and their fathers out here to the airfield at Bouguenais from the railway station in Nantes, on hand to meet them, all smiles, was Captain Nicolas Duval. While he had maintained a loose form of contact with Max by way of the occasional exchange of postcards, he had not seen any of the three youngsters since their chance encounter in the Alps back in the summer of 1932, some seven years ago, when they had been but boys. Were these three young men standing before him, really one and the same? Surely not? Captain Duval smiled. There followed heartfelt handshakes all around, with, as before, despite his right elbow continuing to pain him, Max interpreting, assisted ably in his endeavours, from time to time, by Matthew.

* * *

Captain Duval led the way over to the officers' mess where, in the company of several of his fellow pilots, once they were all seated at a trestle table covered with a snowy white cloth, set up outside on the grass, a convivial light luncheon ensued. All had heard of the escapade involving the boys in the Alps back in 1932 and made much of the resourcefulness of the three young men. Equally, the pilots were interested to hear about Friedrich's combat experience with the _Kaiserliche und Königliche Luftfahrtruppen_ , the Imperial and Royal Air Force of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, flying repeated sorties during the Great War, in an Albatross D. III in the skies over northern Italy.

During the course of the meal, conversation turned to all manner of matters aeronautical, of considerable interest both to Friedrich and to Max but most of which went completely over the heads of Matthew, Tom, and Danny. For his part, Robert, while his French was non existent and Max had to translate everything for him, as a putative pilot, he was very interested to learn something of what had happened in the skies during the Great War.

Now, as luncheon progressed, amongst other things which the French pilots wanted to know was whether Hauptmann Godwin von Brumowski whom it transpired Friedrich had known personally, having served with him on the Italian Front, or Baron von Richthofen, had been the greater ace. And, while admitting to a partisan bias on their part, what was Herr Schonborn's opinion on the Nieuport 17? Was it not the finest aircraft produced during the Great War? Had it not been copied by the Germans? And had not the Royal Flying Corps placed orders for it as well? Was it not superior to both British and German fighters of the period? How did it match the Albatross D. III in terms of performance, manoeuvrability, and firepower?

As a former serving infantry officer, what did Monsieur le comte - Matthew - think of his comrades in arms: the knights of the skies? Like Friedrich, mindful that he was a guest in a foreign country, Matthew was exceedingly diplomatic in all of his replies while Max, with no trace of conceit, displayed an excellent command of the specifications of the various aircraft under discussion which impressed the French pilots no end. Ducking his head, blushing, Max shyly owned up to the fact that he had models of most of the same machines suspended from the ceiling of his bedroom at Rosenberg.

Eventually, the discussion turned from the past to the present. And here, and wisely so, Max let both his father and his uncles do the talking. For his part, hampered by his own lack of French and still feeling somewhat under the weather, Danny too, kept both his opinions and his thoughts to himself.

Was there likely to be another war? What did Herr Hitler intend? And the Maginot Line? Was it not a work of military genius? Here Tom made almost the only contribution he had to the conversation and with the succinct observation that while, of course, he deferred to the others here present as to matters military, he could not see the sense in having built such an expensive and extensive system of fortifications when they did not extend as far as the English Channel. While he was not a military man, surely, should war become a reality, then would not the Germans launch any attack on France to the north, through the Low Countries and simply avoid the much vaunted defences of the Maginot Line altogether? Here there was an awkward pause in the conversation. Indeed, responded the French pilots, but the very existence of the Line would slow any German advance significantly, thus enabling both the British and the French to mobilise their forces and so counterattack through Belgium.

"And what about the Ardennes?" asked Tom. At this, Matthew looked down at his plate; hid a smile. As was so often the case, his Irish brother-in-law was so remarkably well informed.

"Les Ardennes? Elles sont impénétrables!" came the swift reply.

"Impenetrable? For sure," was Tom's laconic observation.

Fortunately, it was at this very point that Captain Duval's batman appeared at the table bearing aloft a large cake to celebrate Max's birthday, and which the young man was invited to cut himself, his health and long life being toasted by one and all with champagne which, observed Friedrich, was of exceptional quality.

* * *

With luncheon over and Captain Duval's colleagues having made their farewells before dispersing to attend to their duties, now for Max, came the highlight of the day's proceedings: a trip around the airfield itself to view some of the aircraft stationed here.

As they made their way across the grass towards a line of aircraft , most of which, Max informed Danny and Rob, were Morane-Saulnier 406s, over in the distance they saw too a large building, belonging, explained Captain Duval, to the Société Nationale de Constructions Aéronautiques de l'Ouest where new aeroplanes for the Armée de l'Air, the French air force, were being built. Having answered a veritable barrage of questions from Max, the captain smiled apologetically and then sadly shook his head. _Désolé_ _mais_ _non_ ... Regrettably, for reasons which he was sure they would all understand, that part of the site was strictly out of bounds; the more so since a matter of days ago, _les criminels ont force l'entree de l'usine;_ there had been a break in at the factory. However, shortly, he hoped that he would be able to make it up to Max for any disappointment of not being able to permit them see inside the building.

* * *

The pain from Max's elbow, caused, he assumed by too much use of the rifle Mama had bought for his birthday, something she had warned him against, had developed to the point where it had become a persistent, nagging, dull ache, with the joint feeling hot to the touch, although it was not as painful as other similar episodes.

At least, not yet.

But, all the same, it was exceedingly debilitating, very wearing, and Max knew too that he was running a slight temperature. When they returned to the chateau, he would, he thought, ask Aunt Sybil to put his right arm into a sling. Maybe that would help relieve the pain; stop it from becoming a great deal worse. Perhaps it would simply cease of its own accord. That was the trouble: often Max never knew how or why it was an episode of bleeding began or, more importantly, when it would cease. Sometimes it arose out of a slight knock, a minor blow, nothing more than a tap, maybe, a slight strain. Yet often, there would be no discernible cause at all.

* * *

 **La Rosière, earlier that same morning.**

Gaston came out onto the terrace to announce that there were officers from the Sûreté at the front door who wished to speak with both the Master and the Mistress.

"News about the investigation, no doubt," observed Edith to both Mary and Sybil. "Would you be so good as to show them into the Drawing Room, Gaston. I'll be there directly".

"Very good, Madam".

The major domo bowed his head and promptly withdrew.

* * *

 **Military Airfield, Bouguenais.**

At length, having walked round the line of stationary aircraft, at the far end they found a two-seater trainer, its engine already running, and with a mechanic standing beside it. Would Max like to sit inside? Of course he would, but before that, what about some photographs, as a lasting memento of their visit?

The first was taken by Captain Duval: one of all of them, fathers and sons together, standing on the grass with the row of aircraft behind them. Then the captain took another, of the young men, with Max in the middle. Now it was Friedrich's turn: a snap of Captain Duval and Max and then one of Danny, Rob, and Max, all smiles, leaning back against the wing of the aeroplane.

* * *

So then, asked Captain Duval, what about a short taxi over the grass around the airfield and back to here?

"Bitte, Papa ..."

Friedrich hadn't the heart to tell Max no. He nodded his head.

"Sehr gut, aber nichts mehr".

"Ja, sicher".

Thereafter, with Max strapped firmly into the rear seat, while Captain Duval climbed into the front cockpit and likewise made ready, Max put on a leather flying helmet and goggles. Now, as he grinned and gave his father an excited thumbs up, Friedrich took the opportunity of taking yet another photograph.

* * *

 **La Rosière, that same morning.**

"And?" asked Mary with a quizzical raise of an expressive eyebrow as but a short while later Edith, her face slightly flushed, came back out onto the terrace and resumed her seat on the wicker chair between her two sisters.

"They wanted to know what firearms we possess here at the château. And they've taken away Max's rifle, for examination; the one I bought him for his birthday".

"Max's rifle? But why on earth would they want that?"

Edith shook her head.

"I've no idea. None whatsoever. It doesn't make any sense. More to the point, they wanted to speak with Max himself. I explained that he wasn't here. That he and his father were in Nantes but that they would be back later today. The police insisted on knowing where they both were. In the end, I had to tell them".

* * *

 **Military Airfield, Bouguenais.**

Meanwhile, unaware of what had happened back at the château, with Captain Duval at the controls and a delighted Max in the rear seat, the aeroplane moved slowly across the grass, passing the line of aircraft they had inspected, out into the middle of the airfield, where it came to a stand. With the engine still running, and the propeller continuing to spin, while everyone else stood and waited, they saw Captain Duval turn his head and say something intelligible only to Max.

Then, before any of them realised what was happening, the 'plane was moving forward, rolling gently over the grass, all the while gathering speed. A moment later, its wheels lifted clear of the ground, with the aircraft soaring skywards into the wide blue yonder, high above the airfield.

"Nein, sicher nicht. Mein Gott!" mouthed Friedrich, white faced. He himself had never divulged the nature of Max's illness to Captain Duval and he doubted very much that Max had done so either. Caught up in the excitement of it all, giving free rein to what the doctors had told both Friedrich and Edith was sometimes the reaction of a haemophiliac boy to all of the constant concern for his health and well-being, throwing caution to the wind, ignoring as best he could, the growing pain in his elbow, for his part, Max was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Ashen faced, Friedrich turned to Matthew and Tom for some form of re-assurance.

"I should have realised. If only I ..."

"You weren't to know. Besides, I'm certain nothing will go wrong".

"For sure". Tom contrived a wan smile.

"If it does, then Edith will never forgive me".

* * *

 **Somewhere over Nantes.**

As the Morane-Saulnier 230 banked hard to port, amid the roar of the wind, the bumps, the rattles, the noise from the engine, coupled with the reek of both oil and aviation fuel, Max saw the whole of the city of Nantes spread out below him. There was the port with its cranes and warehouse and steamers tied up at the quays as well as the twin pylons of the huge transporter bridge; the streets, both narrow and broad, lined with slate roofed buildings; the grey and white dome of a large church topped by a gilded statue hove into view, then the spire of another, and the towers of the cathedral; the bridges across the river; the intricate web of roads and railway lines with trains leaving the station. And, meandering its way through the very heart of the bustling city, at one point dividing into two around a small island before re-joining and flowing once more as one, ever onward towards the sea, the silver grey ribbon of the Loire.

* * *

With Friedrich gazing steadfastly at the ground, refusing to look up, Matthew shaking his head in utter disbelief, and Tom watching open-mouthed, Danny and Rob both let out an excited cheer. Forgetting, if only for the moment that he still didn't feel completely well, Danny clapped his father excitedly around the shoulders; jabbed a finger towards the azure blue of the sky.

"Crikey, Da! Will yous just look at that for sure!"

* * *

Suddenly, the ground wasn't where Max expected it to be. Along with the city, it had vanished completely out of his line of vision. In that split second, looking about him, trying desperately to make sense of what it was that had happened, Max realised that wholly without warning Captain Duval had rolled the 'plane and for the present, they were flying upside down. A moment or two later, far sooner than if he had been asked about it Max would have said he himself wanted, they were once more flying the right way up, leaving the city behind them, heading back in the direction from whence they had come, over towards Bouguenais.

Then, all too soon, they were swooping down, at a fearful rate of knots, coming in low over the buildings and grass of the airfield. Upon catching sight of Papa, his uncles, and his cousins on the ground below, ducking as the 'plane flew directly overhead, having the time of his life, Max waved gleefully to one and all.

* * *

 **Military Airfield, Bouguenais.**

A short while later, having made the smoothest of landings, Captain Duval taxied slowly across the grass, over towards the officers' mess, beside which stood waiting Max's anxious father, uncles, and cousins. With the 'plane having come finally to a stop, Captain Duval switched off the ignition, turned and grinned broadly at Max.

"Bon anniversaire!"

For a moment, Max was completely lost for words. Having had the good fortune to be able to celebrate his birthday with Danny and Rob, and now this! Then, remembering his manners, he stammered out his thanks to Captain Duval.

"Merci ... merci, capitaine. Merci ... beaucoup".

Having slipped off his goggles and unbuckled his harness, Max climbed, somewhat unsteadily out of the cockpit onto the wing, from where he was helped the short distance to the ground by Danny and Rob. Followed by Captain Duval, the three of them walked across the grass over to where their fathers stood waiting and, in the case of Max, for what he expected would inevitably be a reckoning with Papa. A moment later, cradling his right elbow, Max came to a stop in front of his father.

"Papa, I know I ..." he began.

Just happy to have Max back on _terra firma_ , seeing too the expression on his face, one of pure delight, Friedrich hadn't the heart to scold him. Certainly not now, in front of his cousins, in the process humiliating Max, and ruining what, so far, had been the most wonderful day.

And, if the truth be told, probably not later either.

After all, had he himself not said to Edith that they should let the boy have his head?

 _Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,_

 _Or what's a heaven for?_

Friedrich smiled.

Quite what Edith would have to say about it all when she found out, as find out as she must, what it was that had happened here at the airfield this afternoon, well that was another matter entirely.

"That, my boy, is something which I will never forget," said Friedrich, his tone matter-of-fact, before opening wide his arms and hugging Max to him.

"Wie ist Ihr Arm?" he asked softly, speaking rapidly now in German.

"Nicht so schlech," Max lied. With droplets of sweat beading his forehead, his face pale, the pain was much worse, caused by the strain of holding on tightly to the edge of the cockpit when Captain Duval had rolled the 'plane. "Schwör mir, dass du nichts sagst".

"Schon gut, ich sage nichts". Friedrich rested his hand on Max's shoulder.

Turning to Captain Duval, Friedrich shook him warmly by the hand.

"Merci. Vous avez donné à mon fils un cadeau d'anniversaire dont il n'oubliera jamais".

"De rien," he said softly.

* * *

So involved were they all with thanking Captain Duval profusely for making them so very welcome and then making their farewells, that they failed to see the dark Citroen Berline drawing slowly to a stop beside the mess.

* * *

"Which of you is Herr Schönborn?"

Hearing his name spoken, Friedrich turned, and, much to his surprise, now saw, standing but a few feet away, three gendarmes: an officer and two NCOs. The officer touched the brim of his képi.

"Herr Friedrich Schönborn?"  
"Indeed".

With a sweep of his hand, the officer indicated the three young men.

"And which of these is your son?"  
Max stepped forward.

"I am".

The officer nodded.

"Both of you must now come with us".

 **Author's Note:**

The French railway system had been nationalised in 1938.

The lines of poetry Matthew quotes are from T. S. Eliot's _Burnt Norton_ , first published in 1936, and named after a manor house in Gloucestershire.

While these days, and from a comparatively early age, most boys and girls are rather more knowing about sex, at the time of the story, most upper class children would have been completely ignorant of the facts of life.

The site of the military airfield out at Bouguenais now forms part of Nantes Atlantique Airport.

While the name of Baron Manfred von Richtofen alias the Red Baron, the German fighter ace, is well known, Hauptmann Godwin von Brumowski (1889-1936) who met von Richtofen, was his Austrian equivalent and is credited with 35 victories over Allied aircraft in the skies over the Italian Front.

When the Second World War began, the Germans did indeed bypass the Maginot Line.

Morane-Saulnier: a French company, founded in 1911, which built and supplied aircraft to the Armée de l'Air both during and after the Great War. Introduced in 1935, the M.S.406 would, in due course, prove no match for the Messerschmitt Bf 109.

The transporter bridge which Max sees from the 'plane was demolished in 1958.

The lines of poetry Friedrich quotes are taken from _Andrea del Sarto_ by Robert Browning (1812-99).


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Plaisir D'Amour

 **La Rosière,** **Drawing Room, later that same day, July 1939.**

As Edith re-entered the Drawing Room, where, following the return of Friedrich, Max and the others from the military airfield out at Bouguenais, all the adults had gathered together, rising swiftly to her feet, Mary's brown eyes were compassion itself.

"Edith, darling, tell us, please, how is he?"

"The doctor's still with him and Max's temperature is very high. As for the pain, well, it comes and goes in waves, but once he's been given an injection of the morphine and it begins to take effect, that should help him a very great deal".

"Darling, is there anything we can do to help?" asked Sybil.

"I'm not sure. I don't think so. Besides, I don't want to put you to any trouble".

" **Trouble**?" Sybil sounded incredulous.

"Darling, what I mean is ..."

Sybil waved her elder sister into silence.

"Edith, in case you've forgotten, we're family. Remember? And you, darling. need to rest. You won't do yourself, or Max any good, by running yourself into the ground. So, when the doctor's gone, if it would help, then Mary and I will take turns in sitting with Max. Won't we, Mary?"

"Thank you, darling. You're very sweet".

In a crisis, such as this was, Mary was not to be outdone, or indeed found wanting. With her, family always came first.

"Yes, of course".

At his wife's unexpected offer of help, Matthew lofted a brow. Back at Downton, whenever any of the children had been ill, Mary been more than content to leave all that sort of thing to Nanny. Nonetheless, to be fair, as he always tried to be, Matthew knew very well that ever since the summer of '32, when, aged nine, Max had tripped and fallen down a flight of garden steps, and Mary had saved his life by taking the full impact of the fall, hitting her head and being rendered unconscious in the process, that ever after she had a very soft spot for her young Austrian nephew.

"Why, darlings, thank you. Both of you".

"Not at all. It's the very least we can do. So ... what happens now?" Mary chewed at her lower lip.

"I'm afraid, all we can do, is watch and wait".

"Nothing more than that?" Mary sounded disbelieving. Even incredulous.  
"Darling, remember what I told you, when we were on the Rome Express?" Edith asked, in the circumstances displaying a marked degree of forebearance.

Mary nodded.

"Yes, I do remember. But that was seven years ago. Surely things must have moved on since then. I mean, in the matter of treatment".  
Edith shook her head.

"Regrettably not". This from Friedrich.

"No, nothing more can be done. Except pray that the bleeding stops," said Edith.

"It will, darling. Believe me, it will!" exclaimed Sybil. She rose from the sofa where she had been sitting next to Tom, taking Edith's hands in her own, and holding her close.

"Yes, it must," added Mary, clenching and unclenching her hands all the while staring at the floor.

"Eventually, yes, of course. But while it continues ..." Edith grimaced. "Friedrich, I want to talk to you". Her tone was imperious; one that brooked no opposition.

"Edith, I hardly think that now is an appropriate time for ..."

"Friedrich, I meant what I just said".

Matthew and Tom both exchanged glances; shot their brother-in-law unspoken looks of both pity and support. Born a Crawley, when Edith got the bit between her teeth she could be just as aristocratic as either Mary or Sybil.

* * *

 **Place Saint Pierre, Nantes, t** **he following afternoon.**

Here, right in the very heart of Nantes, not far from the ornate, richly carved west front of the cathedral, seated at a table, outside a bar in the Place Saint Pierre, having ordered both coffee and a cognac, in the warmth of the July afternoon sunshine, Fergal Branson, presently attached to the staff of the German embassy in Paris, was reading the latest edition of _L'Humanité._ Given the fact that the cheap rag was run by the Communists, the newspaper might have been thought to be a curious choice for a man of his own political persuasions to be reading but, like many things with the Irishman, it was merely a means to an end.

A moment or two later and a dark shadow fell slanting obliquely across the table. Looking up, shading his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sunshine, on seeing who his visitor was, Fergal now indicated the empty chair beside him. Taking off his cap, clearly nervous, looking about him furtively, the other man promptly sat down hard and, when the waiter arrived, even without so much as raising his head, quickly ordered a coffee.

"Et les dessins? Vous les avez retrouvé maintenant?" Keeping his voice low, Fergal's tone was both brusque and matter-of-fact. Back in Berlin, he knew the Abwehr would be most interested to learn details of the alterations which, so it was being rumoured, were being proposed to be made by the French to the Morane-Saulnier 406 now in production here in Nantes; in particular as regards wing design amd strengthened armament, as well as improved exhaust ejectors for additional thrust which, it was said, would increase its top speed to some 509 km/h.

The other shook his head.

"Non, monsieur. Pas encore". And, went on, Fergal's compatriot, what was so decidedly odd was that the drawings had not been found on the man when they had searched him while their subsequent attempts at _persuading_ him to reveal their whereabouts had proved maddeningly and singularly fruitless. A bullet in the back of the head, as a coup de grâce, had then swiftly followed; the body dumped at the site of an isolated archaeological excavation which lay close by.

So then, where were they? Fergal had asked before swallowing down the last of his cognac. The other shrugged half-heartedly. For the present, neither he nor his compatriots know.

"Monsieur, je suis vraiment désolé".

Fergal was not at all impressed. And simply being sorry was not good enough. No, not by a long way. Jaysus! Feckin' bloody rank amateurs! If something needed to be done, then it was far better to do it oneself, for sure. Only, of course, that was not always possible.

The late, and, as far as Fergal was concerned, the decidedly unlamented Ferrièr had been a member of the Parti Social Français, so therefore well disposed but, just as importantly, if not more so, had also been an employee of Morane-Saulnier, a young draughtsman working in the company's drawing office at the factory over out at Bouguenais. Of course, if he had taken proper precautions, Ferrièr would never then have let himself himself be seen removing the plans from the safe in the first place. Nor, thereafter, would he have been so careless, in fact, downright stupid, as to let himself be followed back here into Nantes, by a fellow employee who, with the damndest bad luck for sure, had, unexpectedly, been working the same night in an adjoining building.

From what Fergal had been able to glean, an altercation in the street had ensued, not far from here, late on Saturday evening, leading to Ferrièr being struck and killed by a tram. The other, the man who had followed him, who hailed from Saint-Florent-sur-Loire, had been silenced, but not before, realising that he himself was now being trailed, had hidden the plans for safe keeping. But, as to where they were now, was anyone's guess. They had certainly not been recovered and returned to the factory. So they had to be somewhere, close to where Ferrièr's pursuer had finally been apprehended.

A search of his home, an isolated farmhouse near to the Abbaye Saint-Pierre-des-Bois, had been made, in the process resulting in the death of his elderly bed-ridden mother. But although the three Party members had then ransacked the place from top to bottom, it had all been to no avail: the plans had still not been found. Fergal shook his head. Suddenly it was as if all the warmth had gone from the day.

The only present satisfaction Fergal had, at least for the present, and that from from his contacts working in the Sûreté here in Nantes, was the knowledge that this matter had caused a very great deal of discomfort and trouble for the Schönborns with, thanks to some work behind the scenes on the part of Fergal himself, the French authorities wondering whether the Schönborns, father and elder son, were spying for the Germans. Not that any of it was true of course, but Fergal had seen to it that a fertile seed of doubt had been sown in the minds of the Sûreté that the Schönborns were perhaps not the political refugees they seemed and might well just find themselves being deported from France and sent back to Austria.

* * *

Of course, back in '38, if those feckin' idiots in Vienna had done their job properly, then the Schönborns, both parents and their two sons, would never have been allowed to escape from Austria in the first place, for sure; something in which the earl of Grantham, Matthew Crawley, was known to have played a significant part, and to whom Fergal owed a blood debt, for what had happened in Florence back in the summer of '32. And nor would they have been able to spirit out of Austria, as they had done, a significant proportion of their wealth, in which Crawley was known also to have had a role.

Instead, both of the Schönborns would have been sent to Dachau where neither of them would have survived for very long. As for their two sons, it was well known that the elder boy was often unwell; both could have been disposed of easily enough. A secret, midnight disappearance, with no-one ever knowing what had become of them.

And thereafter, the entire Schönborn fortune, confiscated by the state.

* * *

"Mes supérieurs à Berlin seront très déçus. **Très** déçus," repeated Fergal, adding for good measure that if there were to be any hint of disloyalty ...

The other took pains to assure Herr Branson that they in the Party were all loyal. There was no question of that. The plans would be recovered and handed over as agreed.

Fergal nodded.

Then they had three days; no more. After that he was returning to Paris. Fergal stood up. Looked down disparagingly at the other. He had no intention of making this easy; any of it.

"Et vous pouvez payer pour les boissons".

* * *

 **La Rosière, t** **he previous evening.**

For once, feeling every single one of her advancing years, her face ashen and streaked with tears, closing the bedroom door softly behind her, Edith came out onto the darkened landing where, for the moment, she stood, leaning with her back against the wall, trying to compose herself before going downstairs again to tell the others how Max was now. For all the kindness of the family, of the offers of help from both darling Mary and Sybil, this was a burden Edith had to bear alone. After all, it was she who had given Max this terrible disease in the first place. That it had been unintentional, that she could have done nothing to have prevented it, made no difference. None whatsoever. But when she saw him bleed and knew that she was the cause ...

Thankfully, this attack did not seem to be as bad as some and the morphine which Max had been given an hour or so ago had served both to deaden the pain in his elbow and also to make him very drowsy. As the doctor had said, sleep was the best medicine.

Thereafter, it was all a question of time, once the bleeding in the joint had ceased, as surely it must, depending how long the process of re-absorption then took, and Max regaining, eventually, the use of his arm. Edith sighed softly. After what she had said a matter of days ago, how on earth Friedrich could have been so irresponsible as to let Max take a ride in an aeroplane. No, don't even think about that now. All that mattered was that Max ...

* * *

"Aunt Edith, can Rob and I see Max, please?"

Startled to hear voices, Edith spun round on her heel, to see, standing behind her in the shadows, both Danny and Rob. Neither of them could believe that what had started out as such a perfect day could have ended like this.

"My darlings, Max is very tired. He isn't really up to receiving any ..."  
"Please, Aunt Edith. Just for a minute".

Seeing the look of concern etched upon the faces of her two nephews, knowing just how close the three were, Edith hadn't the heart to refuse.

"Very well then, but only for a short while". Beckoning the two forward, then quietly opening the door, she let both the young men into the room beyond, before following on behind.

* * *

With the shutters closed, save for the lamp beside the bed, the room was in complete darkness.

"Max, old chap ... how are you feeling?" asked Danny, seating himself gently on the side of the bed. At the sound of his voice, he saw Max ghost a smile before slowly stretching out his left hand across the counterpane. Danny enfolded it in his own.

"Ich habe ... besser gefühlt," Max said softly.

Danny looked questioningly up at his aunt.

"He says he's been better".

"That I can well believe," said Rob.

"Rob? Sind Du das?"  
"Yes, I'm here too, old chum. I know you're feeling rotten but we ... Danny and I ... we wanted to see how you are".

Max forced a smile.

"Tous pour un ... " he whispered, "et un pour tous". All the while, his voice was growing fainter, before Max mumbled something unintelligble about Frittie, his dachshund; now ceased altogether, as at last, and much to his mother's relief, Max drifted off into a drug induced slumber.

"Frittie? But he's ..."

Danny and Rob exchanged glances; turned to stare at their aunt in alarm.

"Don't worry, it's only the morphine," explained Edith by way of reassurance.

* * *

 **Military Airfield, Bouguenais, earlier that same day.**

In fact, what had happened to Max, served only to put into perspective Danny's recent bout of measles, the more so with Matthew and Robert, along with both Tom and Danny, now seeing at first-hand for themselves how it was that the Schönborns had lived their lives ever since Max's birth and the dreadful confirmation of the fact that he had been born suffering from haemophilia.

Admittedly, it had only been the realisation that Max was not at all well that had helped to stay the hand of the gendarmes in acting forthwith upon their initial demand, that both Friedrich and Max should go with them into Nantes; this, for questioning before a juge d'instruction, an examining magistrate, in connection with the matter of the man found shot dead out at the archaeological excavation at the Abbaye-Saint-Pierre-des-Bois. Added to which, there was, it seemed, the question of military documents which had been discovered to be missing from the Morane-Saulnier factory adjoining the airfield here at Bouguenais and about which both on his behalf and that of Max, Friedrich professed to be completely ignorant. The officer of the gendarmes was not to be convinced. What then were they all doing here?

The timely intervention on the part of both Matthew and Captain Duval that Max was clearly unwell now gave the officer in charge of the party of gendarmes immediate pause for thought. How would it look, then asked Tom, if both Herr Schönborn and his son, the Austrian brother-in-law and the nephew of the earl of Grantham, who was well known here in France on account of his involvement with the League of Nations in Geneva, were to be dragged off for questioning before an examining magistrate, when Max was so clearly unwell? Or was that how things were done here these days, in the Republic of France, with its proud motto of _Liberté, égalité, fraternité_? Surely not.

So, after a hurried telephone call to his superiors in Nantes, it was decided that, given the particular circumstances, a delay of a few hours, even a day, would make little difference to the course of the police investigation. What mattered most now was to get Max back to La Rosière, for a doctor to be called, and if necessary, for the young man to be admitted to hospital.

Once he had been made fully aware of the nature of Max's condition, at the insistence of Captain Duval, the journey back to La Rosière was made in the military motor which had brought all of them out here to the airfield from Nantes but a matter of hours earlier. It was certainly quicker than going by train, with a telephone call being made to La Rosière, by Friedrich, letting Edith know, that Max had been taken ill, and to have a doctor in attendance. not of course that he made any mention of what had led up to this or the fact that both he and Max were under suspicion of being somehow involved in the death of the young man found out at the archaeological dig as well as having knowledge about the theft of plans from the Morane-Saulnier factory here at Bouguenais.

And while the journey back to La Rosière by motor proved far swifter than the train, given the un-metalled state of the cobbled roads hereabouts, every single bump, every dip, proved the most exquisite torture to darling Max who, by the time they all reached the château, had been nearly delirious with the pain from his elbow.

* * *

 **La Rosière,** **Max's bedroom,** **a fortnight later.**

"Where's Rob?"  
"Off somewhere with Saiorse, for sure. So then, you'd really like to go?" Danny held up the brightly coloured poster for Max's inspection, which announced that the following evening, which was the 14th July, France's National Day, there was to be a dance down in the village.

Max nodded. Then sighed deeply. Having heard at length from Danny and Rob all about the dance they had been to in Downton last summer, he would very much liked to have gone to the one here in Saint-Florent tomorrow night, but knew that in all likelihood, his parents would forbid it.

Danny smiled.

"All right then after what you've just been through, yous deserve it, for sure!"

Max grinned; gently massaged his right elbow.

"Does it still hurt?"  
"A little".  
"But yous want to go all the same?"  
Max nodded his head. Danny grinned.

"Then yous will. And, as for your parents, don't yous worry. Leave them to me".

* * *

 **La Rosière,** **Boathouse,** **that same afternoon.**

During these last two weeks, while Max had been so ill and confined to bed, the loft over the boathouse had become Robert and Saiorse's regular trysting place. This afternoon, with Saiorse lying beside him, for the umpteenth time, Rob found himself wondering why it was that both of them had denied admitting their true feelings for each other for such a long time.

"About what you said, a minute ago, are you quite certain you'd really be able to arrange a transfer over to the General Infirmary in Leeds?"

"I don't see why not, for sure".

"What about your parents?"  
"I'll tell them that I want to succeed on my own merits. Having Ma working there beside me at the Rotunda, I know what some of the other trainee nurses think about that, for sure. And, anyway, if there's a war, from what Da's said Ireland will keep out of it. So, if I'm already over there in England, we can continue seeing each other".

"You've got it all worked out, haven't you?"

"Pretty much!" Saiorse grinned. She placed her hand on his chest; let her fingers sift through the fine mat of hair.

"And you'd like that?"

"Like what?"  
"Continuing ... with er, this?"  
"Well, if I didn't, I'd hardly be here with yous now would I, for sure?"  
"No, I suppose not!" Saiorse caught sight of the smug smile of satisfaction rapidly spreading across Robert's features.

"Robert Crawley!"  
"What?"  
"Sometimes yous ..."

"Sometimes I what?"

Robert rolled swiftly over on top of her, grasping her wrists and pinning her down beneath him in the hay.

"Now tell me again ..."  
"What?"  
"How much you love me!"  
"I'm not at all sure that I do," Saiorse said with a feigned air of indifference.

"Yes you do!"  
"All right, I do!" Robert immediately let go of her arms. Saiorse sat up, massaging her wrists. She glanced sideways at him.

"Rob, will yous tell me something?" she asked.  
"If I can, yes. What?"

"Has Danny said anything to yous ... I mean ... about what happened ... out there in Spain?"  
"No, not much. Other than what he told everybody over dinner, the night we arrived here. Why do you ask?"

"I thought he might have mentioned who the girl was he met".

"Ah, **the girl**! No, he hasn't".

"With the two of yous being thicker than a pair of thieves? For sure? I can't believe he hasn't told yous!"  
"Well, he hasn't. Saiorse, darling, I'm not your brother's keeper. No, to be frank, whenever I've tried to get Danny to talk about it, he clams up. He's been just the same with Max".

"Well, if yous couldn't get Danny to talk about it, I doubt Max could. I know he's a sweetie, for sure, but where that sort of thing is concerned, Max is very much an innocent".

"Maybe. But as you yourself said, he's a fine looking chap".

Saiorse nodded.

"Yes, he is, for sure".  
"So, do I have a rival then? Should I be jealous" laughed Robert.

"Not at all". Saiorse giggled. "All the same, I've a private notion Danny did meet someone out there in Spain. No, don't laugh. It's not woman's intuition. Nothing like that at all. In fact, I know Da and Ma think so too. I heard them discussing it before we left Ireland to come here". She glanced at her watch. "Jaysus! Is that the time?" Saiorse began hurriedly pulling on her clothes.

"And speaking of your Da and Ma, I suppose we'll have to tell them sometime ... I mean about us". Robert stretched languidly but made no attempt to get up.

Saiorse nodded.

"For sure. And your parents too ... but not just yet".

"No, not yet".

"You'd better get dressed," said Saiorse, eyeing Robert's still naked body.

He nodded absent-mindedly.

"Yes".

Saiorse wasn't at all sure that he had even heard her.  
"Well then ..."  
"I wonder ..." began Robert, now sucking on a piece of straw.

"Wonder what, for sure?"  
"Danny's girl ... who she was".

* * *

 **La Rosière, Friedrich's** **Study** , **later the following day.**

"Well, hopefully, we shan't be seeing them again," said Friedrich and with evident satisfaction. He was standing by the window of his study, watching the black motor containing officers of the Sûreté from Nantes moving off and away down the drive. Hearing his words, Edith came to stand beside him beside the open window. She slipped her arm through his.

"Agreed".

"Liebling, once again, about what happened there at the airfield ..."  
"Hush now, it's all forgotten and forgiven. I'm well aware that Max is a true Schönborn. Tell him not to do something and like as not he will do precisely the opposite! And speaking of Max, this business of the dance, in Saint-Florent".

"What about it?"

"Friedrich, do you really think it's very wise? I know Danny's said that he and Robert will look after him but ..."  
"If Max feels up to it, then where's the harm? After all, he's been confined to his bed for the last two weeks. Now that he's on the mend ... Besides, as we've both said, many times before, neither of us know whether this will be his last ... And with Danny and Rob along to keep an eye on things ... "

Edith seated herself back at the desk.  
"But so soon? And I know, though he pretends otherwise, that his elbow still pains him".  
"Remember what I told you, when we both returned from the seeing Tom race in the TT over on the Isle of Man? Without Max noticing, just how protective they both were of him?"

Edith nodded.

"Yes, I remember. All the same, I ... What on earth ..." Edith held up for Friedrich's inspection a thick wad of papers, which she did not recognise, and which she had found, pushed inside the notes she had been making on the Roman settlement of _Portus Ratiatus_.

* * *

 **Spanish Pyrenees, January 1938.**

Up here, high in the mountains, beneath the icy crests of the Pyrenees, mid the swirling mists, it was very cold. Indeed, bitterly so, with deep snow covering the jagged ground and from the brooding darkness of the racing swirl of clouds he had seen while the daylight lasted, there was yet more of it to come. The air was thinner too, which as a consequence made breathing, indeed any kind of physical exertion, that much more difficult; the more so when, as now, one hadn't eaten a square meal for several days.

Just inside the mouth of the cave, in ragged clothes and with a threadbare blanket thrown carelessly around his shoulders, Danny Branson sat huddled over the dying embers of a camp fire, re-reading for the umpteenth time the very last of the bundle of letters he had received from Ma, just before the mail had ceased altogether, and which like the others were full of her chatty, breezy news from what she called the "Home Front" although despite her matter-of-fact tone, enquiring whether he had enough pairs of underpants and warm socks, Ma could not disguise the worry she clearly felt at Danny being over here in Spain in the middle of an increasingly bloody and violent civil war and on the side which was clearly losing the struggle.

Now, one might be forgiven for wondering why it was that Danny did not put on more wood, but the simple fact was, there wasn't any to be had. In any case, rekindling the blaze was out of the question since it would serve only to alert the Nationalist soldiers, presently somewhere down there in the valley far below, as to the whereabouts of this bedraggled, pitiful handful of Republicans, of whom Danny was one, desperate at all costs to avoid capture, and instead somehow escape the net which was fast closing in around them, caught as they were here, between the mountains and the sea. Escape, either back to their families in the Basque country, or else over the border into France. But the time to do either was now fast running out; if in fact it had not already done so.

* * *

At first, as is often the case in war, especially a civil war, the news from the front had been just what they all wanted to hear. After a succession of defeats, not that the word was ever used to describe what had happened, the Republicans had won a great victory, although exactly where that had been was not specified but a great victory nonetheless. General Francisco Franco had been killed and the Nationalists were retreating. In fact, in full flight, heading for the southern coast from where, those that made it thus far, they would sail back to Spanish Morocco from whence they had come.

Only, of course, none of it was true.

In fact quite the reverse.

Yes, said the political commissar shortly thereafter at one of their nightly gatherings, which, save for those on guard duty, they were all expected to attend, the Republicans had been forced to make a further _tactical withdrawal_ but only for the present. It was, he assured them, only temporary. They would soon go on the offensive once again and fight on to victory. Not long after this stirring pronouncement, Danny heard tell that the political commissar had disappeared from the camp; was rumoured later to have been seen over the mountains, in France, living above a bar in Perpignan, and so well out of harm's way.

Then, as the days passed, merged into weeks, then months, the military reports grew less optimistic. Grew fewer. And then, suddenly, and far more ominously, there was no news at all. Save that was for the rumours which reached them here in the mountains, under the cover of darkness.

* * *

From somewhere in the blackness outside there came the sound of footfalls, of swiftly approaching footsteps. A moment later a dark form appeared in the low mouth of the cave. Stooping down, ducking her head, the woman came in and, as she did so, Danny saw that her dark hair was flecked with snow. The woman straightened up and moved forward into the cave.

He knew her, of course, both by sight, and also surprisingly by name, but only because he had asked Sergeant Cervera how she was called: Carmen Garcia. A few years older than himself; a nurse whom he had encountered in the aftermath of an air raid on Valencia, where Danny had seen for himself, at first hand, the horrors that modern weapons could inflict on the civilian population of a defenceless city. Had made him understand, if he had not done so before, why it was, back home in Ireland, dearest Da was so opposed to war. A conviction held so resolutely by Da that not even Uncle Matthew who, despite his own experiences over on the Western Front, still held to the doctrine of a just war; that sometimes peace at any price was not to be borne, could shake Da from his own firmly held conviction that war was morally repugnant. That no cause could ever be so noble as to justify the taking of the life of another human being, whether man, woman or child.

For the moment, Carmen simply stood looking down at him, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. Even though she was wearing a sheep's wool jacket, she shivered; held out her hands towards the pitiful blaze, more by rote than in the hope of their being any warmth to be had from the dying embers.

"Está frío afuera". She nodded towards the chill darkness outside.

"Frío," agreed Danny solemnly. Looking out through the mouth of the cave, he saw that, as he had expected, it had begun to snow again.

Danny rose wearily to his feet, offered Carmen the half empty flask of brandy which he had been given yesterday by Josè; acquired, or so Danny had been told at the time, from an empty bar in one of the several deserted villages through which they had passed on their way up here into the mountains, the villagers having fled in advance of the arrival of the Nationalists. When Danny had suggested to Josè that the acquisition of the flask and its contents was little more than theft, the young Basque had been indignant, assuring the dark haired Irishman that the brandy had been _liberated._ And even if it was theft, as the political commissar had told them, was not all property theft? Besides, even if that were not so, Josè said that in any case he had no intention of leaving it behind for those Nationalist pigs.

"No, gracias".

The woman shook her head.

* * *

Not that Carmen did not need warmth. She did. But of a different kind to that which the brandy would undoubtedly bring. Lightly, she let her left forefinger trace the front of Danny's blue shirt, from his collar all the way down to where the garment disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. Then she turned and slowly walked the few remaining steps to where a deep fissure in the rock led on, inwards, to a second cave; smaller and more private than the first in which they were now standing.

* * *

 **Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, Tuscany, Italy, July 1932.**

"But how do yous know, Da? What I mean is, when the time's right for yous?"

Seated here in the gazebo below the villa, well away from prying ears, Tom ruffled his twelve year old son's thatch of dark hair  
"Danny, son, yous'll know".

"Really, Da?"  
"For sure".

* * *

 **Spanish Pyrenees, January 1938.**

The effect her touch upon him produced was electric.

Here in the cave, the shadows on the walls danced and, in the flickering vestiges of firelight, Carmen gazed back at him over her shoulder, a smouldering, provocative look, full of ripe promise, the creamy whiteness of her skin clearly visible where her blouse and jacket had slipped from off her shoulder. Whether she had contrived it thus, he never knew. It didn't really matter, for Danny was now conscious of nothing other than a sudden tightening in his groin.

And, whatever the black clad priests here in Spain, as well as those back at home in Ireland, might well preach, about imperilling one's immortal soul by succumbing to the pleasures of the flesh outside the sacrament of marriage, Danny knew that what Da had said had been true.

It was time.

* * *

As Danny moved towards her across the rough hewn floor of the cave, unbidden, there came into his mind, a line from Ma's last letter.

 _And since they say cleanliness is next to Godliness, while, as you will be aware, I am not that religious a person, do be sure and see that you both wash and change your underclothes; preferably every day._

Danny gulped.

Something which, for all the advice he had given him, Da had singularly failed to mention.

Clean underpants.

Danny prayed his were.

* * *

 **La Rosière, Friedrich's study, early evening, 14th July, 1939.**

" ... and so, for now at least, say nothing of this, any of it, to the others".

"What about Max?"

"Especially not to dearest Max. We have to keep him out of this at all costs. For the moment I need time to think as to what we should do now".

"Inform the police, surely".

"In the normal course of events, yes, but ..."

"But what?"

"Well, don't you see, how it would look? The missing drawings from Morane-Saulnier, of which I've denied all knowledge, turn up here, among your private papers. How on earth do we explain that? And while the police may have returned Max's rifle, there's still the question of your missing revolver ... the Walther PPK".

"Yes, I do begin to see what you mean".

"Ah!" Friedrich cocked a weather ear. "I think that will be the boys about to set off".

* * *

"Promise me now". In the coolness of the hall, searching his face, Edith enfolded Danny's hands in her own.

"For sure. Rob and I will take very good care of Max. Ah ..." Hearing the sound of voices, Danny turned, just in time to see both Rob and Max descending the main staircase of the house. He smiled. "Grand! Well, then, are we ready?"

"Tous pour un, et un pour tous!" Max grinned.

"Of course! The three most handsome men in France!" laughed Rob.

"Remind me, for sure, when did all of yous last look in a mirror?" asked Saiorse who had come to stand beside them.

Robert grinned.

"Just now!"  
"And remember, Danny and yous are there to keep an eye on Max!" she whispered.

"You're really sure that you don't mind? Because if you do ..."

"No. I trust yous". She smiled.

Rob nodded.

"But of course!"

"Have a grand time, Max!" Sairose kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Thank you," he answered shyly.

"Darling, ..." Edith kissed Max lightly on his forehead; saw him colour at her touch.  
"It's all right, Mama. I feel perfectly fine".

"Wein, Weib und Gesang!" Friedrich smiled. "Now, remember, the motor will collect you from the square at half past ten". Friedrich placed his hands on Max's shoulders. "Ihre Mutter macht sich Sorgen, sonehmen die größte Sorgfalt".

Max nodded.

"Ich verspreche," he said solemnly.

* * *

 **Spanish Pyrenees, January 1938.**

Naked, Carmen was seated astride him.

That she had wanted him long ere tonight was true enough. In fact, almost ever since she had first laid eyes on him. That had been ... five months ago, in Valencia. The city, the capital of Republican Spain, had been under attack from the air by Falange fighters flying out of Majorca. The street Carmen found herself in was now on fire, there were explosions, and on either side buildings were collapsing, when suddenly, from out of a cloud of smoke, his face streaked with dirt, blood-stained, and covered in dust, carrying the broken body of a little child in his arms, the softly spoken Irishman had materialised before her.

"¿Por favor, eres una enfermera?" was she a nurse?

Carmen nodded.

Then, could she help? The child ...

Of course, nothing could be done for the little girl. A swift glance told Carmen all that she needed to know; that the shard of metal had pierced the child's heart. Even so, she nodded, took the lifeless little body from him, had the little girl laid on a makeshift stretcher, covered with a blanket, and then taken away by two volunteers.

* * *

No, don't think of that. Not now.

Glancing down Carmen saw that the young Irishman was near his point of release.

Not of course that he could have known it at the time, but, as she rose above him, little did Danny know that his time here in war torn Spain was almost over.

And there was something else too.

That neither of them could have known.

That what had happened tonight, here within this cave, lost in the fastness of the snowbound Pyrenees, would change the course of both of their lives.

Forever.

* * *

 **Bastille Day, Saint-Florent-sur-Loire, evening, 14th July 1939.**

When, half an hour or so later, that same evening the three of them reached the edge of the village, it was obvious that tonight's festivities here in Saint-Florent-sur-Loire were already in full swing, the atmosphere palpably a mixture of both expectation and excitement. The summer night air was thick with all manner of savoury smells mingled with cigarette smoke while, from somewhere beyond the far end of the narrow street leading into the square there came the murmurings of many voices and, over all, the melodic, undulating, swelling warblings of someone playing an accordion.

At Max's insistence, the motor had dropped them instead a short distance away from Saint-Florent, close to a time weathered wayside cross, beside which the chauffeur was told to meet them again, at at half past ten. Thereafter, an easy downhill stroll soon brought them to the edge of the village and thence, along with many others, by means of a short walk up the Rue 'Eglise and so into a small, cobbled square, the Place des Jacobins.

With today being la Fête nationale, commemorating the storming of the Bastille on 14th July 1789, at the beginning of the French Revolution, not wanting to be out done by its immediate neighbours, at least in the matter of festive celebration, tonight, here among the rolling sweep of the vineyards, the little village of Saint-Florent was truly en fête; its inhabitants having pulled out all the stops, so as to make this a night to remember.

Along with electric light bulbs and swathes of colourful red, white, and blue bunting, strung in profusion between the branches of the plane trees surrounding the cool, shady Place des Jacobins, here in the small square, beneath the overarching trees, in addition to those which customarily stood outside the red painted Bar François, further chairs and tables had been set. Close by, between the classical front of the Mairie, from the façade of which hung a large tricolore, and an ornate fountain, where from a lion's head mask, in a constant sparkling arc, water spouted down into a moss fringed stone basin, a low wooden stage for dancing had been erected. On this, several couples were presently shuffling back and forth, doing their very best to keep in time with the accordion which, until the members of the local band, who could be seen eating their supper in front of the Bar François, resumed their playing, constituted the only source of music.

Danny, Rob, and Max seated themselves at an empty table beneath one of the plane trees, as they did so, drawing admiring looks, nods, smiles, and whispered comments from several women nearby. A few moments later and a waiter from the Bar François came over to ask them what they all wanted to drink, Danny and Rob leaving it up to Max to do the ordering.

While they waited for the man to return, they took in their immediate surroundings. A short distance from where they were sitting, a group of locals were playing boules while, seated at an adjoining table, a couple of elderly men were hunched over a wooden board, playing trictrac, a game similar to backgammon, and which both of them seemed to be taking very seriously indeed, to the exclusion of everything else taking place about them.

A moment or two later and the waiter returned with the bottle of wine which Max had ordered, as well as three glasses.

* * *

"How are yous feeling, Max?" asked Danny, pouring each of them each a generous glass.  
"I'm fine".

"For sure?"  
Max nodded.

"Let's have a toast," proposed Rob.

"What shall it be?" asked Max.

"I know ..." Danny raised his glass; made to speak, but then, shook his head.

"No. You do it Max. Your French is better than mine".

"What do you mean, _better_? Danny, old chap, you can't speak a bloody word!" This from Rob.

"Neither can yous, for sure!"

"Come on then Max!"

" _Tous pour un et un pour tous_!"

All three chinked glasses, before setting them back on the table.

Max's smile now broadened into a grin. This was something he craved. If only for a few hours, to be allowed to be just like his cousins, and to enjoy simple pleasures such as this.

* * *

To a round of applause, the band now began playing a jaunty little air, _Partant Pour La Syrie_ , it having been announced a short while ago that the womenfolk of the village could choose their own partners for the next waltz. That moment had now arrived and, while the band continued playing, the process of choosing partners began in earnest. During this time a pretty dark haired young girl appeared beside the table, tapped Max gently on the shoulder, and promptly held out her hand. At first, Max demurred, shook his head. The girl persisted; held out her hand again, making it quite obvious, at least to Danny and Robert, if not to Max, that she was not prepared to take _non_ for an answer. To much ribbing from his cousins, blushing furiously to the very roots of his sandy hair, Max rose good naturedly from his seat and, taking the girl's outstretched hand, let himself be led onto the dance floor.

* * *

Not that either Danny or Robert could have known it, but Aunt Edith had been a good and patient teacher. And, with other pursuits inevitably denied to him, Max had been an apt pupil. That of course had been in the vast ball room at Rosenberg. However, here tonight, in the village of Saint-Florent, the space available for dancing was very restricted. And, in order to avoid both Felice and he falling off the edge of the staging, Max had to curb his natural enthusiasm, as he proceeded to guide his partner effortlessly back and forth across the makeshift staging.

Thereafter, they partnered each other several times until at length, claimed by her parents, Felice said _au revoir_ but not before in the middle of the crowded dance floor, and fortunately out of sight of both Danny and Rob, her tongue gently probing, Felice had kissed Max full on the mouth. Something which, if he had been asked about it, Max would have said he had enjoyed immensely.

* * *

With the evening's festivities at last now drawing to a close, the band struck up with a spirited rendition of _La Marseillaise._

 _Allons, enfants de la Patrie_

 _Le jour de gloire est arrivé!_  
 _Contre nous, de la tyrannie_  
 _L'étendard sanglant est levé_  
 _Entendez-vous dans les campagnes_  
 _Mugir ces féroces soldats?_  
 _Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras_  
 _Égorger nos fils, nos compagnes!_

 _Aux armes, citoyens!_  
 _Formez vos bataillons_  
 _Marchons, marchons!_  
 _Qu'un sang impur_  
 _Abreuve nos sillons!_

Alone, of all of them, standing next to Rob and Max, in respectful silence beside the stone fountain in the village square, given what he himself had experienced out there in Spain the year before last and being only too well aware of the rapidly deteriorating situation here in Europe, Danny Branson shook his head. Found himself wondering how many of the young Frenchmen here tonight, standing to attention, singing with such fervour the inspiring words of their own National Anthem, had given a moment's thought to the likelihood of shortly finding themselves forced to defend their country, not only with their blood, but with their lives.

* * *

 **Later that night.**

Side by side, happy and content, and in Max's case, not that he would ever have admitted it, feeling rather tired, the three of them walked together along the moonlit road, towards the calvary, while from the direction of the village, punctuated by a cacophony of exploding fireworks, could be heard once again the stirring strains of _La Marseillaise_.

* * *

Yet, when they reached the crossroads, it was to find it deserted. For the time being, the three of them sat down on the steps of the wayside calvary to wait the arrival of the motor. When, after nearly half an hour, and with it now being full dark, there still being no sign of the car, Danny stood up and stretched. Looking down at the others, he grinned broadly.

"It's a bit like when all of us were in the Alps, for sure".

Max nodded his head.

"Except there doesn't seem to be a wheelbarrow!"  
At the image that Max had evoked, they all laughed.

"So what on earth do we do now?" asked Rob.

"Ce que tous vous faites maintenant, c'est de lever les mains," ordered a guttural voice from out of the darkness.

As if to reinforce what had just been said, Danny felt the muzzle of a revolver pushed hard against the small of his back. With no option other than to do as they had been ordered, with Max and Rob too having risen to their feet, Max, followed by Danny and Rob, now all raised their hands high above their heads.

 **Author's Note:**

The title of this chapter is that of the well known song which, while recorded by many modern artistes, was written as long ago as 1784.

Parti Social Français - an extreme right wing, French nationalist party founded in 1936 by François de La Rocque.

Abwehr - German military intelligence.

Written about 1807, _Partant Pour La Syrie,_ was inspired by Napoleon's Egyptian Campaign. In France it became the unofficial anthem of the Second Empire (1852-70).

For the adventures had by Danny, Rob, and Max when they were boys back in the summer of 1932, see Chapters 39 - 43 of _The Rome Express._


	6. Chapter 6

Well, here it is, the last chapter of this particular story and probably my last offering for FanFiction.

It's been fun.

Keep writing, reading, and reviewing.

The Irish Chauffeur

Chapter Six

 _Tous Pour Un Et Un Pour Tous_

 **La Rosière, earlier that same evening.**

"Darling, believe me, when I tell you that you're worrying yourself unnecessarily. Danny and Rob will take very good care of him". Sybil rested her hand lightly, and she hoped, reassuringly, on Edith's wrist. With dinner over, the two of them were standing, side by side, out on the terrace, gazing into the dusk, towards the distant river, the still air of the warm summer's evening replete once again with the throaty sounds of the unseen sedge warblers.

Edith turned her head to look at Sybil.

"Yes, darling, I know. You're right of course. I know they will. And I know equally that I'm being foolish. But I can't help myself. It's just that ... whenever Max is out of my sight ... for any length of time ... I start to worry".

"Of course you do. That's only to be expected".

"An even more so, now that he's all but a man grown. I once told you ... the doctors said that twenty would be a good age".

Sybil nodded her head sympathetically.

"Well, it may sound rather strange, coming from me as a nurse, but the doctors don't know everything, Edith. Sometimes ..."  
"He's sixteen, Sybil. That means in four years ..."

"Darling, as I said a moment ago, the doctors don't have all the answers. Sometimes miracles do occur. We had a case, recently, over in County Wicklow, at the hospital there. As it happens, the patient was also young man, about the age Max is now. Not of course that he was suffering from haemophilia but from something which is just as incurable: tuberculosis. And now, he's completely cured. It was Tom's paper that covered the story in Dublin. And while the young man's parents put his recovery down to the power of prayer, although some may scoff at that, from a medical point of view, it's totally inexplicable. All the tubercular lesions have simply disappeared; as if they'd never been. And, while you know I'm not a religious person, when Danny was out there in Spain, knowing what could happen to him, knowing only too well what did happen to several of those who went out there with him in the Irish Volunteers, I found myself saying my prayers every night he was away. Something I haven't done for years. Just like we all did in the nursery at Downton when we were children. Remember?"

Edith nodded.

"Miss Turton?"

Sybil grinned.

"Exactly!"

Mention made of one of their erstwhile governesses stirred memories for the both of them.

"Tuttie! Because she was always so disapproving! And woe betide any of us, if ever we gabbled or made a slip!"

Edith smiled briefly, before once again becoming serious.

"Sybil, darling, after Max was born, when, eventually, Friedrich and I found out what it was that was wrong with him, I felt so guilty. I still do. For having given him this awful disease. And whenever he has a bleed, knowing it's all my fault, I find myself thinking that there must have been something which I could have done to stop it ever happening, or to help ease his pain. And now I wonder, if I neglect Kurt ..."

Sybil shook her head vehemently.

"No, never. You musn't blame yourself like this, Edith. You had no way of knowing about Max's condition. From what I've read myself, no-one really understands why this happens in a family with no previous history of the disease. And as for Kurt, no never! He's such a happy little boy. So you ..."

Edith equally cut her short.

"But you know what my greatest fear is?"

"Your greatest fear?" Sybil thought she knew the answer to that already but, with what Edith then said next, realised that she what she believed to be so was completely wide of the mark.

"That one day, Max will come to hate me for what I've done to him!"

"Darling, you're torturing yourself unnecessarily. It simply isn't in Max's nature to be that way".

Her sister nodded.

"Yes. I know that what you say is true enough. And, Max told me he doesn't blame me for what happened. Any of it. All the same I can't help myself from feeling the way I do. This evening ... Sybil, he **ought** to be able to go out, have fun, do all the things young men of his age do, to be like Danny and Rob. But because of what I gave him ..."

Hearing footsteps now approaching them both turned, to see Tom walking towards them across the sun warmed flagstones of the terrace.

"What's this? Why the long faces?" he asked cheerfully, now coming to stand beside wife and sister-in-law, before, with an impish grin, casually slipping his arm about Sybil's waist, and kissing her on the cheek.

She smiled.

"Edith and I ..."

"Yes?"  
"Well, we were ..."  
"Come on Sybil, out with it".

Letting go of her waist, waiting while the two women sat down, before perching himself jauntily atop the stone balustrade, legs swinging, Tom sat and listened attentively while Sybil began explaining what it was both she and Edith had just been discussing. At length, after several lengthy interjections from Edith, when Sybil had ended her tale, Tom nodded his head sympathetically before, voicing his opinion on what he had been told.

"As to miracles, Shakespeare said _there are more things in heaven and earth_ , so maybe there's something in it after all. But I'm hardly the one to judge. However, as for that case you mentioned, over in Newcastle, well ... Maybe. Maybe not". Tom shrugged dismissively. "That apart, Sybil has the right of it, Edith. You mustn't blame yourself for Max's illness. Any of it. And as for ..."

From somewhere deep within the house, a clock could be heard chiming.

Tom cocked an ear; pulled out of one of the pockets of his waistcoat, the heavy, embossed, gold pocket watch which these days he often sported.

* * *

When he had first seen his Da wear it, as long ago as the summer of 1931, shortly after his beloved grandfather had died, eleven year old Danny had said the watch made his Da look as though he was a stern Victorian father. At the time, Tom had taken Danny's jest in good part; played along with it, threatening to thrash all of his children soundly within a inch of their lives, before locking them away in a dark, windowless garret, and cutting them off without a penny.

"Yous wouldn't ever do that, to us, Da. Would yous?" had asked little Bobby, his bottom lip quivering and trembling; aged all of five and, at the time, the youngest of the Branson children.

"I'd make an exception of yous!" laughed Tom, instantly pulling Bobby onto his knees in the kitchen at the back of the house on Idrone Terrace in Blackrock, and smothering his face with a welter of kisses.

"Would yous, Da? Would yous?" Bobby sounded doubtful.

"For sure! But, as for these other two here, well ... they'd be locked away forever!" Tom had then done his best to assume a suitably stern expression; eyeing Danny and Saiorse with what he hoped was a cold, hard stare. Not, as himself would readily have owned, he was very good at it.

"And, while all of this was taking place, what would I be doing, Mr. Branson?" asked Sybil, who had appeared in the doorway to the hall; was now standing, leaning against the frame, listening, clearly amused by Tom's play-acting with his threat of physically chastising his children and locking them away. The fact that he had never laid a finger on any of them and never would made what it was that he was saying all the more amusing.

"Why, yous be given a bowl of gruel and then shut away in the garret along with these two!" Tom winked at Danny and Saiorse.

"Would I now?" Sybil arched a brow of mock surprise.  
"Yes, woman, for sure!"

"Don't you _woman_ me, Mr. Branson!"  
At that everyone here in the kitchen had laughed while, snug within his Da's arms, little Bobby knew that all would yet be well.

* * *

Given to him back in '29, the gold watch, engraved and heavily embossed, had been a present from his late father-in-law, Robert Crawley, to mark Tom's appointment as Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent. While for many years he had worn the wrist watch which Sybil had given him to replace the original, smashed beyond repair in 1920 by the Black and Tans, and like its predecessor engraved on the reverse with the words:

 _Every Waking Minute_

these days, more often than not, Tom had taken to wearing his pocket watch. Not so much on account of its intrinsic value although that in itself was considerable, but for what it was. A gift from the heart. From a man who, long before he died, Tom had come to both admire and respect deeply.

Proof of this had come in the aftermath of the Memorial Service held for Robert Crawley in the autumn of 1931 when, long after the service was over, and the family and all the other mourners had returned to the abbey, telling Sybil that he had something to do, silent as a ghost, Tom had flitted, out of the great house, back down to the church. There, in the quiet and the deepening, lengthening shadows, standing before his late father-in-law's newly erected memorial tablet, with tears running down his cheeks, Tom Branson ex-chauffeur and Irish republican journalist, had made his own private, heartfelt last farewell to Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham.

* * *

"There now. It's half past eight already. Only a couple more hours or so, and they'll be back here. Safe and sound, for sure. You'll see. **All** of them. Danny, Rob, and Max". As the two women rose to their feet, snapping shut the cover of his watch, pushing the timepiece back deep inside the pocket of his waistcoat, Tom eased himself off the top of the balustrade. Now, standing before the two of them, he rested his hands lightly on Edith's shoulders.

"Edith, they'll be fine, for sure. Don't worry".

"Darling Tom, I'm sure you're right".

Edith enfolded his hands within her own and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Ever since the explosion at the Shelbourne Hotel, way back in June 1919, when Tom had acquitted himself so bravely - not that he saw it that way - Edith would readily have owned to the fact that ever thereafter she had always had a very soft spot for her Irish brother-in-law.

Tom must have read her thoughts.

"To be sure, darlin'," he said, and with a merry twinkle in his blue eyes. "Aren't yous forgettin' something?"  
"Which is?"  
"I'm Oirish!"

At that, both of them laughed.

* * *

 **La Rosière, later that same evening.**

Not of course that he ever realised it at the time, or indeed perhaps thereafter, but Simon Crawley was in fact witness to part of what it was that unfolded both here and elsewhere tonight. With the younger children already abed, if not asleep, Danny, Rob, and Max having gone off to the dance in the village, Saiorse upstairs in her room, and the adults downstairs in the Drawing Room, Simon had taken himself off on his own for a lonely mooch about the grounds of the château.

Shortly before ten o'clock, while making his way back to the house from the river bank, as he ducked through an archway, he chanced to see the chauffeur donning his leather gauntlets, walking purposefully across the gravelled forecourt, towards the motor, presumably about to set off to collect Danny, Rob, and Max from the dance in the village.

As he reached the front door of the house, on the step Simon turned, only to see the chauffeur, now having reached the car, standing beside it and talking animatedly to another man. At this distance it was impossible to tell who, although it was clearly someone whom the chauffeur knew as Simon saw the chauffeur nod and the other clamber into the front passenger seat of the motor. A moment later and the car was in motion, driving out under the arch at the front of the forecourt off and away down the drive. Simon gave the matter no further thought, turned, opened the front door, went upstairs to his room, and so to bed.

* * *

 **La Rosière, towards midnight that same evening.**

"I know something's wrong ... I can tell". Here in the Drawing Room of the château, the windows still standing open to admit the balmy warmth of the summer night, Edith sat nervously twisting her handkerchief in her hands.

"Surely not". This from Sybil.

"Then where on earth are they?" asked Edith, now unable or unwilling to conceal her rising concern. "Fournier left to collect them shortly before ten o'clock. Give or take a few minutes, they should all have been back here just after eleven It's now nearly midnight".

"Maybe the motor's broken down somewhere along the road," suggested Tom quietly.

Matthew nodded.

"More than likely. Didn't you say something about the engine not sounding quite right when you drove us all down to the railway station a week or so ago?"  
Tom nodded.

"Once a chauffeur, always a chauffeur!" laughed Mary.

Tom grinned.

"Old habits die hard. Yes, I did. All the same, when I had a look under the bonnet a few days later, there was nothing I could find amiss".

"Ah!" Friedrich smiled. "At last!" He nodded towards the window where the headlights of an approaching motor could be seen coming rapidly down the drive towards the château.

"Oh, thank God!" exclaimed Edith.

* * *

 **Crossroads, south of Saint-Florent-sur-Loire, earlier that same night.**

From out of the darkness, first as faceless shadows, there now appeared a group of men, who quickly surrounded the three of them, one of whom grabbed Max roughly by his shoulders, wrenched his arms back, causing him to cry out, in obvious pain. Given what he, Rob, and Max had been discussing previously, both at La Rosière and earlier tonight in Saint-Florent, whether if ever it came to it, they would be able to kill someone, Danny now had his answer. For, hearing Max cry out, Danny, his hands still raised, heedless of the consequences, found a sudden blind rage overtaking him, and he swung hard about.

"If any of yous so much as lays a finger on him, I'll kill yous!"

For all that their captors spoke little or no English, Danny's meaning was clear enough but for his spirited defence of Max, and while the man holding Max released his grip somewhat, all Danny received was hit hard in the solar plexus, causing him to double up. And then, when Rob tried to intervene, for his pains, he received a punch to the mouth and as a consequence, a cut lip.

A moment later, with Danny having been jerked roughly to his feet, all three had gags forced into their mouths, their hands pulled hard behind their backs, and their wrists tied tightly together, before being herded in the direction of a lorry, standing with its engine running, beside the motor which had come to meet them, in a clearing just off the road. As they stumbled past the motor, it was with a distinct sense of shock that they all saw, lying sprawled on the ground, the body of the chauffeur who, like the young man found out at the site of the archaeological dig, had been shot dead with a bullet in the back of the head.

* * *

 **La Rosière, towards midnight that same evening.**

Minutes later, the door of the Drawing Room opened quietly, and Gaston came into the room. He paused, coughed, and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, sir".

"Yes? What is it, Gaston?" asked Friedrich.

"Inspector Legrand of the Sûreté has returned and is asking to speak with you urgently, sir".

Edith's hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh, my God I knew something was wrong!"

* * *

 **Abbaye-Saint-Pierre-des-Bois, earlier that same night.**

In fact, the answer to Edith's previous question lay a goodly number of kilometres away, here, at what, other than the barn standing beside the archaeological dig, constituted the little that still remained of the conventual buildings of the former Cistercian abbey of Saint-Pierre-des-Bois. In this case, the stone built former mill of the abbey; a slate roofed, heavily buttressed building, with a vaulted cellar beneath, on the filthy, straw strewn floor of which, there lay Danny, Rob, and Max.

Hands tied, their mouths gagged, they had been brought here to this isolated, out-of-the way place by their captors in the back of a lorry and then herded down a flight of steps into a foul smelling cellar where, once their ankles had likewise been bound, they had been left alone in the noisome darkness. With dawn slowly breaking, through an un-glazed arched window set high in one of the walls, they were able to see more of their immediate surroundings than had been the case hitherto: the straw strewn floor of the cellar, the remains of a row of enormous wooden barrels, worm eaten with age, broken, rusty tools, and rotten sacking.

Having at last managed to free himself of the filthy gag which had been stuffed into his mouth, Danny hawked and spat.

"Jaysus!" he hissed. He spat again. Then cocked an ear.

From somewhere above them, there came the low murmur of voices. Then, from outside, a little way off, came the sound of a motor drawing to a stand, the beams of its headlights clearly visible through the stone tracery of the window high in the cellar wall.

And then, suddenly, without warning, it began.

* * *

 **La Rosière, after midnight earlier the following morning.**

"... the head of the statue used to stun the young man, the theft of your wife's pistol, its use in his murder, the disposal of his body out at the dig, all part of throwing suspicion upon both you and your family," continued the inspector.

"Indeed," observed Friedrich.

"As for the Parti Social, its members, of whom there are many here in Nantes, like Sir Oswald Mosley and his Fascists in England, they would much prefer a _rapprochement_ ... with Germany". The inspector glanced briefly at Matthew who nodded his head in agreement. "Of course, they deplore what happened to vom Rath in Paris last year. _Les meneurs_ , the leaders, we have had under observation for some considerable time. More recently, there came into our possession, certain information, suggesting a link in Nantes to someone at the German Embassy but, as is so often the case in such matters, _les détails étaient incomplets_. We could not be certain. So a watch was kept on the Morane-Saunier works, on an employee there who we believed to be involved, a cousin of whom was in your employ here at La Rosière".

"Who exactly?" asked Friedrich.

"The wife of your chauffeur, Fournier".

"Fournier? No. Surely not?" Friedrich sounded completely disbelieving.

"Herr Schonborn, I think you misunderstand me. Fournier himself was not the culprit but, _malheureusement_ , he was, how shall I say ... _un peu indiscret_ ... let slip certain private matters concerning this household. _Tout comme sa femme_ ".

"Such as?"  
"The visit of your son and his cousins to Saint-Florent last night. We believe that their kidnappers intended to try and use the young men as a means of obtaining these documents and which they knew to be somewhere in this house". Inspector Legrand tapped the plans lying beside him which, but a short while earlier, Edith had fetched from the study.

"But how? Save for my wife and myself, no-one knew that the drawings were even here. Nor, in fact, did we, until yesterday when ..."

" _Quelquefois les murs ont les oreilles._ Herr Schonborn, regrettably, walls sometimes have ears. So, the conversation which you had with your wife ... regarding what to do ... about these plans ... and which you believed to have been private?"  
Friedrich nodded.

"Was overheard ... by someone else. By Fournier's wife no less; who then passed that information on to her cousin Pascal and his friends in the Parti Social".

"I see. Tell me something, monsieur. A moment ago, when you spoke of Fournier, you did so in the past tense. Was that a slip of the tongue?"

"No. A passing farmer found his body this morning, out near the Abbaye-Saint-Pierre-des-Bois. He'd been shot in the back of the head".

"Dear God!" exclaimed Mary, clearly horrified.

The police inspector turned to face her.

"Forgive me, Madame la comtesse, if I have distressed you, but these men will stop at nothing to achieve their purpose".

Tom swallowed; his heart thumping hard against his chest, he felt Sybil's moist hand steal into his own.

"As to Fournier's wife ..." The inspector now pointed towards the window of the Drawing Room overlooking the gravelled forecourt where, in the darkness, flanked by two police officers, Mme. Fournier could be seen being led, unwillingly, towards a waiting motor.

"And what of our sons? Where are they?" asked Matthew. Standing directly behind Mary, who was seated on the chair in front of him, Matthew felt her hand grasp his seeking some kind of reassurance that all would yet be well.

"Monsieur le comte, if you will, permit me an observation. When you were out at the airfield at Bouguenais had both you and M. Branson not interfered, allowed my men to do their duty and take Herr Schonborn and his son into Nantes for questioning, then it is likely that none of this would have happened. As it is ..." The inspector shrugged dismissively.

"Inspector, at the time, my son was unwell".

"Indeed". It was clear from his tone that the officer did not believe that Max had been as ill as had been claimed. The implication that both he and Max had been party to a falsehood, considering his honour as a Schönborn impugned, Friedrich began to bristle with indignation. Fortunately, before he could say anything untoward, Edith laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"However", continued the inspector briskly, "we know where your sons are being held, out at the Abbaye-Saint-Pierre. We have the place surrounded, and those inside have been called upon to surrender. It is only a matter of time before they do so and the three young men are released and returned to you here, unharmed. But, for the time being, all any of us can do, is wait".

At the inspector's words of seeming reassurance, Tom and Matthew exchanged glances.

It all sounded far too good to be true.

And, even if the others here present believed it, and it was by no means certain that they did, for their part, Matthew and Tom remained unconvinced.

* * *

 **Abbaye-Saint-Pierre-des-Bois, early that same morning.**

Here on the hard, rough stone floor of the cellar, now seated back to back, with the broken shard of metal Danny had happened upon in the straw beneath his feet, held between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, Rob continued to work frantically with it at Danny's bonds, while above them the sounds of shooting intensified and the curling tendrils of acrid smoke which a while ago now had begun eddying down into the damp, foetid blackness of the cellar, grew ever thicker, making the eyes of the three captives smart and causing all of them to cough and retch. It seemed to take forever but then, suddenly, Danny felt the rope binding his wrists together begin to loosen.

"That's it! Yous doing it, for sure!" Turning his head, stretching with all his might, through the murk, Danny had the satisfaction of seeing the strands of the rope at last part, and fall to the ground. In a matter of minutes, Danny had untied his feet, was flexing his shoulders, rubbing hard at his ankles to try and do something to restore the circulation before, at Rob's insistence, kneeling down to free Max.

"Max, are yous all right?"  
His Austrian cousin coughed and spluttered. Now, looking up at Danny through the smoke-filled darkness, his eyes watering, Max mutely nodded his head.

"For sure," he mumbled.

"Then, will yous help Rob while I take a look around? See if there's some way we can get ourselves out of here". Danny coughed. The smoke was getting worse; much worse.

Mindful of how both Danny and Rob had tried to protect him, eager to be of use, to do what he could to help, again Max nodded. Not wishing to been seen as soft, not that anyone could ever have accused him of being so, he said nothing about the thin trickle of blood that even now continued to course its way from his cut wrist, pooling into the palm of his left hand, making it wet and sticky.

Unaware of Max's plight, leaving him to free Rob, rubbing again at his chafed wrists, Danny ran lightly up the worn flight of steps which led to the door of the cellar, avoiding just in time, in the all-pervading gloom, tripping over one of the treads which thrust upwards vertically, half barring his path. Unsurprisingly, the heavy door Danny found to be locked. The iron latch was hot to the touch, with coils of smoke continuing to spiral between the cracks in the planking, spilling down into the cellar while from the other side, midst the crackle and roar of the flames, there came the continued sound of shooting; the occasional spent bullet ricocheting off the stone jambs of the window high above their heads, before falling harmlessly somewhere into the straw. Now, beside him, in the smoke-filled darkness, on a wooden shelf Danny glimpsed a hurricane lantern.

* * *

 **La Rosière, about the same time.**

After the inspector had gone, Edith shook her head in disbelief.

"Released, unharmed ... all three of them ... if only I could believe it will be so," she said softly.

Matthew glanced across at Tom who, all but imperceptibly, now nodded his head.

"The place he mentioned, this abbey ..." began Matthew.  
"L'Abbaye-Saint-Pierre-des-Bois? What of it?" asked Edith.  
"Do you know where it is?" asked Tom.

"Of course, but ..." Looking from one to the other, Edith's eyes grew very wide.

"Tom, darling, surely you don't mean to ..." began Sybil.

"I'm not prepared just to sit here idly by, for sure, and trust to the French police to ensure the safe return of our sons".

"Neither am I," said Matthew softly. "Noblesse oblige!"

Tom grinned.

"I knew I could count on yous!"

"But of course!" said Matthew.

"And, as far as I'm concerned, there's something else too," said Tom, looking calmly first at Matthew and then at Edith. "I owe the both of yous ... for what yous did for me in Florence".

"Tom, darling, you owe me nothing," said Edith softly.

"Yous may see it that way but I don't".

"Tom, please ..." began Sybil.

"Darlin', I do, and there's an end of it".

"So, what are you going to do?" asked Mary.

"Well, here's what I propose we do ..."

"Ma, what's going on?"

Everyone turned, to see Saiorse and Bobby, in their night clothes, standing in the open doorway of the Drawing Room.

"Saiorse, Bobby, darlings, what are you two doing downstairs out of bed?"

"We heard voices ..." began Bobby. "What's happened?"

"As Bobby told you, Ma, we heard voices, then a motor. Where's Danny ... Max ... Rob?"

* * *

 **Abbaye-Saint-Pierre-des-Bois.**

"I'm all right. Really, I am". Max rose slowly to his feet; at first, unwilling to meet Danny's gaze. Even so, through the smoke, by the wan light of the lantern, lit with one of the matches from the box in his pocket, Danny could see that Max looked ashen.

"Max, I know yous".  
"It's nothing, really".

"Then, if it's nothing, show me".

Max demurred but did as he was bidden, turning over both his hands for his cousins' inspection, letting Danny and Rob see just what it was that had happened. The skin of both his wrists bore livid bruises and from the left, where the rope had cut into the flesh, there oozed a slow but incessant trickle of blood.

"Jaysus! Max! Why on earth didn't yous tell us? Here, sit down! Rob!" Rapidly unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it quickly over his head, Danny handed it to his cousin. "Here, take it!. Tear it into strips!" Rob didn't need to be told twice, first making a thick wad of torn linen and then tying it tightly in place over the wound with yet more scraps of material torn from one of the sleeves of Danny's shirt. For the time being, it was the best either of them could contrive, to try and stem the bleeding from Max's injured wrist.

"Does it hurt yous?" asked Danny gently, whose wrists, like those of Rob, had also been grazed and skinned by the tightness of their bonds.

"No, not much," whispered Max. Of course, even it had, he would never have owned it to be so. At least, not to his cousins. Danny's eyes met those of Rob. Neither of them knew whether to believe Max or not. However, if the bruising and lacerations were causing him any pain, he was doing a very good job of hiding it. But then, ever since they had become acquainted, where his illness was concerned, Max always had been determined to put a brave face on things.

"So, will it help yous?" Danny asked.

Max nodded.

"It should. It's what Mama did, when I was little; if ever I fell and grazed my knee".

"So what on earth do we do now?" asked Rob. "And who are these men?" He had to shout to make himself heard above the continued roar of the flames and the yet another stacatto burst of shooting.

"From what one of them said, I think they're of the Parti Social. French Fascists".

"But what on earth do they want with us?"

Max shrugged.

"I don't know". He coughed.

"Well, whatever the truth of it, one thing's for sure. Even if we wanted to, which we don't, we can't stay here". Danny raised the lantern only to reveal that the smoke was much worse. "Ah! I wonder if ..."

* * *

 **Crossroads, south of Saint-Florent-sur-Loire, that same morning.**

In the darkness, Tom brought the motor to a stand at the deserted crossroads by the calvary on the edge of Saint-Florent.

"So, which way now?" he asked.

"Right," said Edith sitting beside him. "From what I recall, it's not much further ..."

"What on earth ..." began Matthew from the rear seat as but a short while later, and the motor was brought to a stand at a roadblock manned by gendarmes, who were under orders. Along this road, they could go no further; were instructed to turn around and proceed back whence they had come.

Tom did as he was instructed; at least that was, until the motor was just out of sight of the roadblock, whereupon, he drew slowly to a stand, doused the lights, and turned off the ignition.

"What do we do now?" Surely you don't mean to ... ".

"If we can't get any closer in the motor, maybe we'll have better luck on foot, for sure".

* * *

 **Abbaye-Saint-Pierre-des-Bois.**

Of the half dozen or so Parti Social members barricaded within and resolutely defending the barn, two had already been killed, another fatally wounded, and it was clear that,with the gendarmes inching closer, steadily gaining the upper hand, it was only a matter of time before they stormed the building. With this in mind, a decision was now taken as to what was to be done about the prisoners being held down in the cellar.

" _Descendez-les_!"

If the defenders of the barn would not leave here alive, then neither would their captives.

* * *

Under the cover of darkness, Tom, Edith, and Matthew had made their way, cautiously on foot, down through the woods, towards the sound of shooting, right in fact to the very edge of the trees, where they stopped, open-mouthed, at the sight that now greeted them. In front of them stood the abbey barn, surrounded, as far as they could see, by armed gendarmes, where a fierce gun battle now raged with those holed up inside. Then suddenly, completely without warning, the building before them exploded into a mass of flame, a blazing inferno, lighting up the night sky, bathing everything hereabouts in a lurid orange, fiery glow.

Within the barn, it had been a stray bullet, fired by one of the gendarmes, which hitting a box of grenades, left over from the Great War, already decidedly unstable, setting the contents off in a series of explosions that tore both the remaining defenders and the building apart; lurid tongues of red and orange flame bursting through the roof and a fiery haze of smoke hung low over the burning building. Moments later, the entire roof of the barn collapsed inwards in a tremendous shower of sparks, the falling timbers adding to the already raging conflagration still left alive within the barn wouldn't have stood a chance. White-faced with the horror of what had come to pass, sobbing, Edith collapsed forward into Tom's arms.

* * *

Here in the smoke-filled darkness of the vaulted cellar, by the flickering light of the hurricane lantern, Danny was still trying to make sense of the fact that the further the three of them had moved away from the door, the easier it had become to breathe. And not just because, at least for now, the smoke here was much thinner but because, unless he was very much mistaken, the air was fresher too. There had to be a reason for it.

Eventually, his persistence paid off.

At the far end of the cellar, at the base of a moss grown wall, covering a low archway, Danny happened upon a heavily rusted iron grating which, judging by the sound of running water which could clearly be heard coming from somewhere beyond it, was the entrance to a culvert. Crouched down by the base of the wall, Danny held up the lantern.

"Yes, this is where the air's coming from, for sure!"

Although the grating appeared immovable, eaten away by rust, a well aimed kick by Rob solved the problem of how it could be removed; the rusty grating falling inwards into the darkness of the tunnel where it landed with a loud splash. Bending double, keeping low, with Danny leading, followed afterwards by Max, and with Rob bringing up the rear, the three of them scrambled beneath the crumbling arch, after which they found themselves in a low, narrow, wet passage, along which there flowed a small stream, and with scarcely enough height for them to stand upright while from somewhere in the darkness, there came an incessant roar of water.

Cautiously, they began to make their way along the passage, their entry into the culvert coming not a moment too soon as now, from somewhere behind them, there came a rapid series of shots, then the sound of wood splintering as their kidnappers forced open the cellar door, followed in turn by shouts of disbelief as it became apparent to their erstwhile captors that, with a rapid search of the cellar now at an end, somehow they had been balked of their prey.

The shouts grew ever louder, now echoing noisily down the culvert. Evidently, the kidnappers had found the entrance to the culvert. And, in confirmation of this, a powerful torch now lit up first the roof of the passage and then as it was lowered, caught the boys in its beam.

Buzzing behind them like a swarm of angry bees, there came a deadly hail of bullets, ricocheting off the dripping roof and walls of the culvert in puffs of smoke, shards and splinters of stone, peppering the surface of the stream in a continuing series of loud plops, raising fine sprays of water.

Suddenly, from behind them came a terrific explosion, the sound of which was heard as far away as Saint-Florent and as a distant rumble at La Rosière, the blast sending a shock wave of hot air and a torrent of filthy water from the now blocked mill race racing along the passage, instantly knocking the three boys off their feet, in the process Danny losing the lantern, plunging them all into sudden darkness, the force of the water, sweeping them along, they knew not where; the passage curving suddenly to the left, where some distance yet down it, they glimpsed the glimmer of what looked like daylight.

* * *

While the firemen continued to play their hoses onto the still smouldering shell of the building, and stretchers covered with blankets carried away the charred remains of the bodies recovered so far of those who had been killed inside the barn when it had exploded and caught fire, Legrand was profuse with his condolences.

" _Madame, je suis vraiment désolé pour votre perte_ ".

And then, just when all hope was gone, from out of the smoke and flame shot darkness ...

* * *

"Mama!"

"Da!"

"Father!"

Not trusting to the evidence of her own ears, breaking free of Tom's encircling arms, Edith whirled about as, from out of the darkness, making their way, none too steadily down a rough track, coughing and retching, there emerged three shadowy forms: Danny, Max, and Rob. A moment later, faces begrimed, reeking of smoke, splashed and stained with mud, soaked to the skin, all three of them were standing before Edith, Matthew, and Tom.

* * *

At last, satisfied that darling Max had come to no serious harm, Edith turned her attention to both Danny and Rob.

"And is this what you two meant, when you told me you would look after him?"

"Mama, please!" Max couldn't believe what it was that he was now hearing. Didn't his mother realise that, had it not been for both Danny and Rob, not to mention their resourcefulness, it was extremely doubtful if any of them, himself included, would be here now?

"I ... I don't know what ... None of this ..." began Danny, evidently mortified.

"Aunt Edith ... we tried our best to ... This ... it wasn't our fault. Any of it," exclaimed Robert.

The corners of Edith's mouth twitched before she broke into the broadest of smiles.

"My darlings, I know you did! Come here, the both of you!" So saying, as Danny and Rob moved towards her, watched by Max, his mother opened wide her arms, and, heedless of her clothes, hugged both her nephews to her in the tightest of embraces, smothering them with kisses.

And, in that instant, Max knew that everything would be all right.

* * *

The link between the Parti Social in Nantes and someone at the German embassy in Paris, while suspected, was never proven. The stolen drawings were duly returned to the Morane Saulnier works out at Bouguenais, with advice from the Sûreté that, in future, the more so given the present situation, they should take better steps towards the safeguarding of such sensitive documents.

Meanwhile, well displeased, Fergal Branson returned to his office in the Foreign Ministry on the Wilhelmstrasse in Berlin.

* * *

Thereafter, in the days that followed, the visit of the Bransons and the Crawleys here to the Schonborns took a far more leisurely turn with lazy days spent at the château, followed by a jolly trip over to the coast at Pornic, and thereafter several picnics at a succession of places along both banks of the Loire.

* * *

 **La Rosière, the very last evening, August 1939.**

Tonight, having regaled everybody once again, for the umpteenth time, with all that had happened to them after the dance at Saint-Florent-sur-Loire, pressed especially in this regard by young Dermot and Kurt, both of whom viewed their brothers Danny and Max, along with their cousin Rob, as nothing short of returning heroes, when dinner was over, Edith suggested that, before the light started to fade, it was high time for some more photographs to be taken of those here present. These now duly ensued, Mary remarking quietly to Matthew that, whether it was Arab workers out at one of her digs in the Near East or, as here at La Rosière, members of her own family, darling Edith was never happier than when she was organising everybody else.

First up, there was a picture of Branson, Crawley, and Schönborn together; adults and children, with the adults grouped behind the older children, right down to the youngest sitting cross legged on the ground in front of everyone else with Edith moving everyone back and forth, until she thought herself completely satisfied with the arrangement before deciding that someone still wasn't in the right place, and insisting on this being rectified.

* * *

While all of the to-ing and fro-ing was taking place, Tom whispered to Matthew that it reminded him of some old black and white movie footage he had seen, taken just before the Great War, when the Russian Imperial family had paid a State Visit to Constanta, on the shores of the Black Sea, to visit their Roumanian relatives. If that was so, grumbled Matthew good naturedly, while Edith continued with the business of re-positioning everybody yet again, he only hoped they would not share the same fate as many of those in that same photograph of the last Tsar, his immediate family, and their Roumanian cousins.

"And," said Tom, becoming equally serious, "that photograph was taken on the eve of the Great War. Yous know as well as I do that there's every chance, even if Ireland stays neutral, that we'll soon find ourselves involved in another".

Matthew nodded, then grimaced.

"Tom, old chap, I'm very much afraid that you have the right of it. And this time, what with Herr Hitler rabble rousing in Germany, and Il Duce strutting about in Italy, along with what Danny told us he saw over there in Spain, when it does kick off, it will come calling on all of us". Matthew paused, glanced about him; was suddenly singularly aware that everyone else had fallen silent.

"Come on, you two! Everyone else is waiting!" exclaimed Edith briskly in that no-nonsense tone of hers, one that brooked no opposition, reminding Tom instantly of darling Sybil when she got on her high horse which, on occasions, she did, and which he supposed was a Crawley family trait.

"Better do as the General orders!" chuckled Tom sketching a mock salute in the direction of Edith before dutifully, and somewhat sheepishly, both he and Matthew did as they had been instructed and shuffled into line along with the rest of the family.

"Crikey, Mary, Edith, and Sybil, as generals. Just like Lepidus, Mark Anthony, and Octavian!" whispered Matthew with a grin.

"Jaysus!"

"Crawley women, eh?"

"And in uniform, for sure!" laughed Tom, shaking his head in disbelief at the image they had conjured. "Mind yous, Matthew, every cloud has a silver lining. Put Mary, Edith, or Sybil, in command of an army, I tell yous, for sure, there'd never be a war".

"I know I will regret ever asking you this, old boy, but just why is that?"

"The troops would have mutinied long before they fired a shot!"

* * *

"When you two have quite finished!" hissed Sybil.

"Well said, Sybil! Be quiet the pair of you; otherwise we'll be here all night!" exclaimed Mary.

* * *

There followed, too, several photographs, taken by Danny, first of all the adults together,then snaps of the three couples individually: of Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary, of Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith, and finally, of both Da and Ma, who, unlike the others, who had merely stood demurely in front of the balustrade of the terrace it, sat themselves on top of it. Just before Danny closed the shutter on the picture of his parents, Tom leaned in and stole an impromptu a kiss from Sybil.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, you two! Do you **have** to?" demanded Saiorse hotly, standing beside her brother and raising her eyes heavenwards. Given what both she and Robert had been doing in the loft above the boathouse but a short while earlier, Saiorse's remark was rather uncharitable. But then, sometimes, is it not the case that children, at least those of a certain age, are uncomfortable when confronted by overt physical displays of affection on the part of their parents?

"Darlin', as I told you all once before, it's an obligatory part of my duties as a Da!" laughed Tom.

* * *

"What's ob ... obl ... What Da just said ... What's it mean, for sure?" Young Dermot looked up at Bobby for enlightenment.  
Bobby smiled down at him, recalling to mind when he himself had asked the very same question of Da all those years ago in Florence, when he had been the same age as Dermot was now.

"Obligatory; it means it's something you have to do".

"Oh!"

Dermot grinned.

* * *

And then there was the snap taken of both Rob and Saiorse, standing side by side at the top of the flight of steps leading down from the terrace towards the river. A closer examination of this photograph would have revealed to anyone observant enough to notice that the two of them who, throughout their lives, had always been at loggerheads, were in fact holding hands. But, at the time, save for Simon, who was more observant than most, nobody else noticed. Or, if they did, they never said.

* * *

So, at last, there came the final photograph taken here this evening.

Watched by their proud parents, neat and clean, in white shirts and dark trousers, at Aunt Edith's insistence, somewhat self consciously, side by side, the three of them sat together, seated on a wooden bench below the terrace, Max between Danny and Rob, and with Max's new hunting rifle artfully placed so as to hide his still bandaged left wrist.

"Smile!" laughed Edith. Somewhat bashfully, the boys did as they were told, each breaking into the broadest of grins for the camera.

The three of them.

Together.

Against the world.

Just as it had always been, almost ever since they first had met, back in that long, hot summer of 1932.

Whatever happened, come what may, for as long as they all lived, this was something that would never change.

 _Tous pour un, et un pour tous_.

* * *

The following morning, after undeniably tearful farewells, wondering, given the deteriorating situation here in Europe, when, they would all be together again, both the Bransons and the Crawleys set off for home. First by train, to Paris and thence to Calais; by steamer across the Channel to Dover, and so by train to Downton, where the Bransons were to stay for a few days, before embarking on the final leg of their journey, across the Irish Sea, back to Blackrock in Ireland.

Three weeks later, on 1st September 1939, Germany invaded Poland.

Two days thereafter, having received no answer whatsoever to their demand that the Germans desist from military operations against Poland, Great Britain and France declared war on Nazi Germany.

The Second World War had begun.

 **Author's Note:**

In Ireland, in the 1930s, despite some improvement in living conditions - especially by clearing away the slums in places such as Dublin and Cork - the death rate from tuberculosis remained very high and with but one hospital in the whole country, the Royal Hospital for Consumption built in Newcastle in 1896, to treat those suffering from what has been called the AIDS of its time. Effective treatment for the disease only became available after the end of the Second World War.

In an aristocratic household such as Downton Abbey, unlike a nanny, the governess was always referred to by her own name - Miss Smith - (never just Smith as that would have placed her on the same footing as an upper servant) although, as here, their young charges often gave them a nickname.

Ernst vom Rath (1909-38) was a minor diplomat at the German embassy in Paris. Shot dead there in 1938, by a Polish, Jewish youth, Hershcel Grynszpan, the murder of vom Rath provided an excuse for the Nazis to attack Jewish property in Germany in what came to be known as _Kristallnacht_ , "The Night of Broken Glass".

For a haemophiliac, minor cuts and abrasions to the skin are not that serious.

The movie footage of some three minutes' duration, along with the photograph, to which Tom refers are both well known. At the time, it was hoped that the engagement of Grand Duchess Olga, Tsar Nicholas II's eldest daughter, to Prince Carol, the eldest son of the Crown Prince and Princess of Romania, might be announced but nothing came of the idea. While the sad fate of the last Tsar and his immediate family is well known, the Roumanian monarchy would survive but only until just after the end of the Second World War.

For Bobby asking Tom the meaning of the word _obligatory_ , see Chapter 54 of _The Rome Express_.


End file.
